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UNIVWSITYOF 
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My 


Of  Long  Ago 


For  Friends  who  Remember 


KATE    SANBORN 


BOSTON 

1898 


COPYRIGHT 
BY  KATE  SANBORN 

All  rights  reserved 
Jl'NE  6,  1898 


ACROSS  THE  YEARS 


Sitting  on  my  southern  piazza,  this  perfect  after 
noon  in  the  perfect  month  of  June,  looking  out  over 
"  Breezy  Meadows,"  with  their  rich  growth  of  grass, 
fields  of  waving  grain,  and  ripening  crops,  while  my 
cows  graze  in  the  distant  pasture ;  listening  to  the 
raucous  yet  not  unpleasant  voices  of  the  conceited 
turkey-gobbler  and  his  meek,  drab-hued  mates,  the 
geese,  always  perfectly  at  home  on  my  farm,  the 
mournful  "  koquet,  koquet "  of  the  imprisoned 
guineas,  and  the  cheerful  cackle  of  the  business 
hen,  I  realize  that  my  happiest  hours  are  now  those 
devoted  to  outdoor  sports  and  agricultural  enter 
prises  —  no  longer  a  blue-stocking,  but  a  full-fledged 
farmer ! 

Emerson  says  that  "  a  farm  is  a  mute  gospel." 
To  me  it  has  rather  proved  to  be  a  revelation,  noisy, 
expensive,  and  at  times  depressing  or  exasperating. 
Still,  I  love  this  life  and  shall  never  give  it  up. 

Looking  back  to  the  time  when,  intensely  ambi 
tious,  and  audacious  because  so  ambitious,  so  ignor 
ant  of  the  world,  and  so  empty  as  to  purse,  I  dared  to 
announce  a  course  of  ten  lectures  on  literary  themes 
in  New  York  city,  a  young  woman,  almost  unknown, 


4  Across  The  Years 

I  am  amazed  at  the  venture,  and  bless,  as  I  have 
always  done,  the  patrons  who,  believing  in  me,  gave 
such  effective  aid.  Do  you  recall  my  painful  timid 
ity,  my  face,  which  turned  all  colors  from  excite 
ment,  and  how  every  bit  of  that  nervous  fear 
vanished  under  the  radiant  inspiration  of  the  en 
couraging  faces  before  me  ?  Dear  happy  hours ! 
Dear  faces  !  Dear  faithful  friends  ! 

How  far  away  it  all  seems !  Since  then  I  have 
talked  to  thousands,  have  enjoyed  the  honors  of 
somewhat  successful  authorship,  have  been  professor 
of  literature  in  a  woman's  college,  president  of  a 
woman's  club,  have  learned  to  make  butter,  and 
manage  hens.  But  nothing  stays  so  agreeably  in 
my  memory  as  that  first  audience  of  New  York 
women.  How  public  opinion  changes  as  time  rolls 
on !  Twenty-five  years  ago  there  were  plenty  of 
persons  who  considered  me  an  oddity  on  account 
of  my  profession ;  some  would  not  care  to  know 
a  woman  who  unsexed  herself  by  speaking  on  a 
platform.  I  was  an  unconscious  pioneer  :  now  the 
number  of  women  doing  the  same  work  is  legion. 
I  started  a  class  in  Dr.  Holland's  parlor  on  Park 
Avenue  for  his  wife  and  a  score  of  friends,  condens 
ing  new  books  and  speaking  of  current  events ;  now 
every  village  has  such  a  class,  or  else  a  thriving  club 
able  to  do  its  work  without  a  guide. 

Egotism  (on  paper)  is  sometimes  allowable.  I 
confess  without  any  apology  that,  like  Montaigne,  I 
have  always  "  hungered  to  make  myself  known," 


Across  The  Years  5 

have  desired  earnestly  to  be  known    especially,  as 
a  thorough,  well-equipped  student  of  literature. 

And  now  I  am  not  willing  to  let  these  pet 
lectures  grow  yellow  in  a  desk,  or,  after  my  death, 
be  stored  in  an  attic  as  food  for  mice,  or,  later,  given 
to  the  flames.  I  am  not  so  exacting  as  to  expect  you 
to  read  them :  just  give  the  book  an  honorable  place 
in  your  libraries  —  perhaps  some  grandchildren  of 
yours  may  look  them  over.  They  represent  a  deal 
of  "  digging,"  careful  condensing  and  elimination, 
and  are  still  worth  preserving. 

The  kindest  of  publishers  fight  shy  of  lectures ; 
all  want  something  light  and  amusing  from  me  — 
farm  bulletins  and  comic  adventures.  That  is  only 
a  small  part  of  my  life,  so  I  offer  some  serious  work 
made  easy  reading  by  hard  labor,  to  those  who  still 
retain  a  kindly  interest  in 


Farmer,  Henwoman,  and  ex-Litterateur. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
SPINSTER  AUTHORS  OF  ENGLAND,  .        .^^-.        .        .         9 

BACHELOR  AUTHORS  IN  TYPES 61 

LADY  MORGAN, 108 

CHRISTOPHER  NORTH  AND  HIS  FRIENDS,        .  .141 

THE  OLD  MIRACLE  PLAYS, 174 

OUR  EARLY  NEWSPAPER  WITS 217 

MADAME  DE  GENLIS, 267 

ARE  WOMEN  WITTY  ? .  309 


MY   FAVORITE   LECTURES 


SPINSTER  AUTHORS  OF  ENGLAND 


OLD  Maids  have  been  classified,  by  one  who  has 
written  a  book  about  them,  as  Voluntary,  Involun 
tary,  Inexplicable,  and  —  Literary.  These  various 
modifications  are  honored  with  a  chapter  of  com 
ment  ;  each  type  is  clearly  defined  —  except  the  Lit 
erary  Spinster  ;  she  is  left  severely  alone.  Possibly, 
the  terms  were  thought  synonymous,  for  in  the 
hearts  of  many  there  is  still  an  innate  shrinking 
from  a  Blue  Stocking,  a  name  first  applied  to  a  man, 
the  agreeable  Dr.  Stillingfleet,  whose  blue  stockings 
were  often  noticed  at  Mrs.  Montagu's  Receptions. 

Jeffrey  hit  the  happy  medium  when  speaking  of 
a  literary  woman :  "  I  don't  care  how  blue  her  stock 
ings  are,  if  her  petticoats  are  long  enough  to  hide 
her  hose." 

An  engraving  in  an  English  Annual,  entitled 
"  The  Husband  of  a  Blue,"  illustrates  the  once  pop 
ular  theory  that  a  woman  who  writes  must  of  neces 
sity  be  a  failure  in  home-life.  The  luckless  man,  in 
extremely  simple  toilette,  is  walking  the  floor ;  a 
screaming  baby  in  his  arms,  a  pendulum  between 
patience  and  despair ;  while  Madam,  all  unconscious 
of  the  situation,  unless,  perhaps,  annoyed  by  the 
cries  of  one  and  the  heartfelt  groans  of  the  other, 
is  perched  up  in  bed  with  tangled  locks  flowing 


10  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

and  eyes  wildly  rolling,  as  she  rounds  some  fine 
sentence,  or,  with  gaze  uplifted,  is  waiting  for  fur 
ther  inspiration. 

Both  in  England  and  our  own  country  there  are 
many  distinguished  authors  who  are  also  good  wives 
and  mothers,  women,  in  happy  homes,  with  hus 
bands  proud  and  fond,  sure  of  three  good  meals 
each  day,  and  every  button  on. 

But  Literary  Spinsters  are  to  be  enumerated  in 
this  paper ;  scarcely-more,  for  there  are  so  many  to 
be  mentioned  that  I  can  merely  evoke,  and  dismiss, 
like  the  showman  of  a  panorama. 

I  must  go  back  to  the  Fourteenth  Century  for 
my  first  Spinster  Author,  to  the  pretty  Prioress  and 
practical  sportswoman — Juliana  Berners,  a  Minerva 
in  her  studies,  a  Diana  in  her  diversions,  the  high 
born  beauty,  once  famous,  now  forgotten,  cotempo- 
rary  with  Chaucer.  Her  works,  printed  in  black 
letter,  and  adorned  with  extraordinary  wood-cuts, 
have  lately  been  reproduced  in  luxurious  binding. 
Her  treatise  on  the  Art  of  Fishing  is  the  best  known. 
She  is  the  author  of  the  "  Book  of  St.  Albans,"  which 
contains  essays  on  Hawking,  Hunting,  Coat-Armor, 
Fishing,  and  Bearing  of  Arms  —  printed  at  West 
minster  by  Wynkyn  de  Worde,  a  rival  of  Caxton, 
in  1486.*  She  was  practical  as  well  as  learned  and 

*  BERNERS  (Dame  Juliana).  A  Treatyse  of  Fysshinge  wyth  an  Angle. 
A  facsimile  reproduction  of  the  first  book  on  the  subject  of  fishing, 
printed  in  England  by  Wynkyn  de  Worde  at  Westminster  in  1496. 
With  an  introduction  by  Rev.  M.  G.  Watkins,  M.A.  4to,  printed  on 
hand  made  paper,  rough  edges,  blind  tooled,  vellum  boards.  London, 
E.  Stock,  n.  d.  (1880).  $4.50. 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  H 

enjoyed  the  chase  as  does  the  empress  of  Austria 
to-day.  It  is  paradoxical  to  imagine  a  holy  Prioress, 
accustomed  to  severe  restriction  and  serene  medita 
tions,  chasing  over  the  woodlands  with  hound  and 
horn,  or  collecting  recipes  for  the  extinction  of 
vermin  on  her  pet  hawks,  which  she  cared  for  with 
untiring  devotion.  We  owe  to  her  the  earliest  Eng 
lish  treatise  on  fishing. 

Her  picture,  as  seen  in  Zouch's  Life  of  Walton, 
shows  a  striking  face,  full  of  decision,  spirit,  and 
sweetness,  a  handsome  figure,  attractive  in  spite  of 
her  ugly  gear.  On  her  right  is  seen  the  landing  net, 
with  fish  and  creel,  on  the  left,  emblems  of  the  chase, 
and  a  hooded  falcon  at  top. 

Good-bye,  pretty  and  pious  Juliana  of  so  long-ago. 
I  would  like  to  linger  with  you  —  but  a  brilliant  crowd 
is  beckoning,  led  by  Queen  Elizabeth  herself. 
"  Queen  Bess  "  (1553-1603)  was  an  accomplished  lin 
guist,  translated  from  Greek  and  Latin  and  occasion 
ally  "  dropped  into  poetry." 

A  sonnet  on  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  is  preserved, 
also  some  verses  on  her  own  feelings,  at  the  depart 
ure  of  a  rejected  lover. 

You  recall  her  couplet,  added  to  Raleigh's,  on  a 
window  of  her  palace.  He  scratched  : 

"  I  fain  would  climb, 
But  that  I  fear  to  fall." 


She  rejoined  : 


"  If  thy  heart  fails  thee 
Do  not  climb  at  all.'' 


12  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

A  bit  of  impromptu  doggerel  is  ascribed  to  her 
on  entering  a  certain  town,  where  the  mayor,  a  pom 
pous,  rotund  little  personage,  mounted  on  a  stool,  to 
make  his  address  of  welcome  more  impressive. 

Her  reply  was  brief  and  curt : 

"  You  great  fool, 
Get  off  that  stool !  " 

Disraeli  speaks  of  a  manuscript  volume  of  her 
poems  still  to  be  seen  in  the  Hatfield  collection. 

She  was  ambitious  to  shine  as  a  poet,  although 
affecting  to  be  angry  when  one  of  the  ladies  of  her 
bedchamber  copied  some  rhymes  from  her  tablet, 
"  fearing  her  people  should  imagine  she  was  busied 
in  such  toys." 

Her  courtiers  lavished  extravagant  praise  on  her 
royal  ditties,  which  any  editor  of  to-day  would  con 
sign  to  the  waste  basket,  and  the  Latin  poem  of  her 
cousin  will  live,  while  the  verses  of  Elizabeth  Re- 
gina  are  forgotten. 

We  are  more  interested  in  another  Elizabeth,  the 
celebrated  classical  scholar,  Miss  Carter  (1717-1806), 
in  the  words  of  Allibone,  "  an  ornament  to  her  sex  and 
an  honor  to  her  race."  Of  her  translation  of  Epicte- 
tus,  which  brought  her  ^"1,000,  Dr.  Warton  said  "  It 
excels  the  original." 

Dr.  Johnson,  her  friend  and  admirer  for  nearly 
half  a  century,  composed  a  Greek  epigram  in  her 
honor.  He  remarked  of  a  fine  Greek  scholar  :  "  Sir, 
he  is  the  best  Greek  scholar  in  England, —  except 
Elizabeth  Carter." 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  13 

Upon  hearing-  a  lady  commended  for  her  learn 
ing,  he  said,1  "A  man  is  in  general  better  pleased 
when  he  has  a  good  dinner  upon  his  table  than  when 
his  wife  talks  Greek.  My  old  friend,  Miss  Carter, 
could  make  a  pudding  as  well  as  translate  Epictetus, 
and  work  a  handkerchief  as  well  as  compose  a 
poem." 

William  Hayley,  Cowper's  biographer,  wrote  sev 
eral  volumes  on  "  Old  Maids,  Ancient  and  Modern," 
and  dedicated  the  work  to  Mrs.  Carter,*  saying : 

"  Permit  me  to  pay  my  devotions  to  you,  as  the 
ancients  did  to  their  three-fold  Diana,  and  to  rever 
ence  you  in  three  distinct  characters  as  a  poet,  as  a 
philosopher,  and  as  an  old  maid." 

Miss  Carter  was  a  first-rate  housekeeper  and  nee 
dle-woman,  took  lessons  in  drawing  and  music,  was 
an  excellent  dancer,  could  play  cards,  or  share  in  any 
social  diversion  when  young,  even  somewhat  of  a 
romp.  She  jots  in  her  diary,  "  I  walked  three  miles 
yesterday  in  a  wind  that  I  thought  would  have  blown 
me  out  of  this  planet,  and  afterwards  danced  nine 
hours,  and  then  walked  back  again.  No  girl  pedant 
was  she,  and  they  said  she  had  many  opportunities 
of  marriage. 

Miss  Elizabeth  Carter  once  went  to  a  puppet  show 
at  Deal  with  some  five  friends.  Punch  was  uncom 
monly  dull  and  serious,  though  usually  more  jocose 
than  delicate.  "  Why,  Punch,"  says  the  showman, 
"  what  makes  you  so  stupid  ?  "  "I  can't  talk  my 

*  English  spinsters,  after  arriving  at  the  mature  age  of  fifty,  were 
addressed  as  Mrs.,  not  Miss. 


14  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

own  talk,"  answers  Punch,  "  because  the  famous  Miss 
Carter  is  here  !  " 

Next  in  order  Miss  Catherine  Talbot  (1720-1777), 
a  most  worthy  spinster,  who  can  only  be  mentioned, 
for  several  pages  must  be  given  to  Hannah  More 
(1745-1832),  whose  talent  for  writing  showed  itself 
early.  When  but  a  little  child,  if  she  could  get  hold 
of  a  sheet  of  paper,  she  would  scribble  some  essay  or 
poem,  never  omitting  a  moral,  and  then  hide  it  in  a 
dark  closet  with  the  brooms  and  duster.  When  she 
composed  verses  at  night,  her  admiring  sister  would 
often  steal  down  stairs  for  a  light  and  then  jot  them 
down. 

One  of  her  favorite  games  was  a  prophecy,  for  her 
mother  proudly  relates  how  she  used  to  make  a  car 
riage  of  a  chair  and  invite  her  sisters  to  ride  with  her 
to  London  to  see  bishops  and  booksellers  Her  high 
est  ambition  was  a  whole  quire  of  paper,  all  her  own, 
and  when  the  prize  was  obtained  she  covered  sheet 
after  sheet  with  letters  to  depraved  characters  to  re 
claim  and  reform  them,  and  the  replies,  expressive 
of  contrition  and  resolutions  of  amendment.  She 
was  as  brilliant  as  good.  When  Sheridan,  the  elder, 
delivered  his  lectures  on  eloquence  in  Bristol,  she 
sent  some  verses  to  the  orator,  which  led  to  a  pleas 
ant  acquaintance.  As  a  talker  she  was  remarkable, 
When  about  sixteen,  a  dangerous  illness  brought  an 
eminent  physician  to  her  bedside.  Like  every  one 
else  who  met  her  he  was  completely  charmed  by  her 
conversation.  On  one  occasion  he  entirely  forgot 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  15 

the  purpose  of  his  visit  in  the  fascination  of  her  talk, 
till  suddenly,  recollecting  himself,  when  he  was  half 
way  down  stairs,  he  cried  out :  "  Bless  me  ?  I  forgot 
to  ask  the  girl  how  she  was,"  and  hurried  back  to  the 
room  exclaiming,  "  How  are  you  to-day,  my  poor 
child  ?  " 

In  her  i/th  year  she  wrote  a  pastoral  drama, 
"  The  Search  after  Happiness,"  a  success.  She  had 
already  a  wide  correspondence  with  distinguished 
men.  One  sent  her  this  verse  on  her  promise  to 
visit  his  garden : 

"  Blow,  blow  my  sweetest  rose, 

For  Hannah  More  will  soon  be  here, 
And  all  that  crowns  the  ripening  year 
Should  triumph  where  she  goes." 

Her  father  disliked  pedantic  women,  and  having 
taught  her  a  little  Latin  and  mathematics  was 
alarmed  at  her  progress;  at  twenty  she  was  an 
uncommon  linguist.  But,  if  learned,  never  poky  in 
her  brilliant  youth ;  popular  in  London  soci 
ety  ;  full  of  spirit  and  humor ;  a  special  favorite 
of  Dr.  Johnson,  Garrick.  Horace  Walpole  called 
her  his  "  holy  Hannah."  Garrick  gave  her  the  pet 
name  of  "  Nine,"  referring  to  the  Muses.  He  wrote 
prologue  and  epilogue  for  her  play  of  "  Percy,"  a 
success,  which  gave  her  750  pounds.  She  earned 
more  than  $150,000  by  her  pen,  one-third  of  which 
she  gave  away,  and  did  not  begin  her  career  until 
after  thirty.  Millions  of  her  tracts  and  ballads  were 
sold.  It  is  said  that  her  books  were  more  numerous, 


16  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

passed  through  more  editions,  printed  in  more 
languages,  read  by  more  people,  than  those  of  any 
woman  on  record.  Her  popular  story,  "  Coelebs  in 
Search  of  a  Wife,"  unendurably  tame  now,  went 
through  ten  editions  in  one  year.  Of  course,  she 
was  severely  criticised  by  rivals.  She  said  she  "  was 
battered,  hacked,  scalped,  tomahawked."  After 
Garrick's  death  she  never  went  to  a  theatre,  even  to 
see  her  own  tragedies  performed,  and  lived  more 
quietly,  but  always  eagerly  sought  for  by  the  best 
society.  Only  one  love  affair  is  spoken  of  in  con 
nection  with  this  beautiful  woman,  so  witty  and 
attractive,  and  that  most  unfortunate  and  mortify 
ing.  A  rich  widower,  kept  postponing  their  mar 
riage  until  her  friends  interfered.  He  declared  that 
he  had  the  deepest  regard  and  respect  for  Miss 
More,  and  at  his  death  he  bequeathed  her  a  thousand 
pounds.  She  had  other  offers,  but  avoided  a  second 
entanglement.  Most  people  think  of  Hannah  More 
as  an  aged  spinster  with  black  mits,  corkscrew  curls, 
and  a  mob  cap,  always  writing  or  presenting  a 
solemn  tract,  ignoring  her  youthful  fascinations. 

Her  kindness  to  Macaulay,  when  a  precocious 
little  lad  he  often  visited  her,  is  pleasant  to  remember. 

She  stimulated  him  to  read,  giving  the  money  to 
buy  his  first  valuable  books,  laying,  as  she  said, 
"  the  tiny  cornerstone  of  his  library,"  and  encouraged 
without  flattery. 

If,  after  listening  to  this  high  estimate,  you  go 
to  your  library  and  taking  down  Hannah's  prosy 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  17 

disquisitions,  rather  dusty  on  the  edges,  and,  turning 
over  the  various  volumes,  look  for  something  inter 
esting  or  lively,  you  will  be  disappointed.  Her 
tracts  and  homely  poems,  written  for  practical  effect 
among  the  poor  (for  instance,  the  dialogue  between 
the  two  weavers  over  the  half-made  carpet),  are  still 
excellent.  But  who  reads  Hannah  More  now  ?  Her 
day  has  gone  by.  Her  "  Percy,"  like  Addison's 
"  Cato,"  would  be  wretchedly  dull  on  any  stage. 
Towards  the  close  of  her  life  she  fell  into  a  common 
error,  and  grew  narrow  in  her  views,  and  unneces 
sarily  solemn.  Never  found  time  to  read  Scott's 
novels,  and  accused  him  of  being  not  immoral  but 
non-moral,  which  was  unjust ;  and  said  she  would 
rather  present  herself  at  Heaven's  gate  with  her" 
tract,  "The  Shepherd  of  Salisbury  Plain,"  in  her  hand, 
than  encumbered  with  all  the  novels  of  the  mighty 
"  Wizard  of  the  North." 

A  good  novel  is  as  useful  in  its  way  as  a  good 
tract,  and  Jeannie  Dean's  character  and  her  speech 
to  the  Queen  in  behalf  of  her  sister,  seems  to  me 
more  Christlike,  than  the  stilted  submission  of  the 
saintly  shepherd. 

"  And  when  we  come  to  die,  my  Leddy,  its 
not  what  we  hae  dune  for  ourselves,  but  what  we 
hae  dune  for  others  that  we  think  on  maist  pleas 
antly." 

"  I  wonder'  if  you  ever  heard  a  story  told  to  me 
by  your  countryman,  Mr.  Northmore,  a  great  Dev 
onshire  reformer,  one  of  the  bad  epic  poets  and 


18  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

very  pleasant  men  in  which  that  country  abounds. 
He  said  that  Jeremy  Bentham  being  on  a  visit  at  a 
show-house  in  those  parts,  at  a  time  when  he  was 
little  known  except  as  a  jurist,  certainly  before  the 
publication  of  the  Church  of  Englandism,  or  any 
such  enormities — Mrs.  Hannah  More,  being  at  a 
watering-place  in  the  neighborhood,  was  minded  to 
see  him,  and  availed  herself  of  the  house,  being  one 
which  was  shown  on  stated  days,  to  pay  a  visit  to 
the  philosopher.  He  was  in  the  library  when  the 
news  arrived,  and  the  lady  being  already  in  the 
ante-chamber  and  no  possible  mode  of  escape  pre 
senting  itself,  he  sent  one  servant  to  detain  her  a 
few  minutes  and  employed  another  to  build  him  up 
with  books  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  When  the 
folios  and  quartos  rose  above  his  head,  the  curious 
lady  was  admitted.  Must  it  not  have  been  a  droll 
scene  ?  The  philosopher  playing  at  bo-peep  in  his 
intrenchment  and  the  good  lady,  who  had  previously 
ascertained  that  he  was  iii  the  room,  peering  after 
him  in  all  the  agony  of  baffled  curiosity !  " 

I  have  sketched  Hannah  More's  picture  as  faith 
fully  as  possible,  with  no  idea  of  blaming  her  for 
being  too  good,  but  it  would  be  partial  not  to  allude 
to  her  narrowness  lest  a  shadow  might  fall  on  the 
picture. 

She  said  many  good  things,  as :  "I  used  to 
wonder  why  people  should  be  so  fond  of  the  com 
pany  of  their  physician,  till  I  recollected  he  is  the 
only  person  with  whom  one  dares  to  talk  continually 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  19 

of  one's  self  without  interruption,  contradiction,  or 
censure." 

"There  are  only  two  bad  things  in  this  world, 
sin  and  bile."  Speaking  of  Woman's  Rights,  how 
many  ways  there  are  of  being  ridiculous  ?  I  am  sure 
I  have  as  much  liberty  as  I  can  make  good  use  of, 
now  I  am  an  old  maid,  and  when  I  was  a  young  one 
I  had,  I  dare  say,  more  than  was  good  for  me." 

Anna  Seward  (1747-1809)  was  a  most  sentimental, 
lackadaisical,  affected  creature,  with  a  particularly 
florid  and  stilted  style,  called  by  her  admirers  of  the 
"  Delia  Cruscan  "  school  the  "  The  Swan  of  Litch- 
field,"  but  who  impresses  more  impartial  observers 
as  a  Goose.  Still,  at  nine  years  old  she  could  repeat 
the  first  three  books  of  Paradise  Lost,  which  proves 
her  appreciation  of  good  poetry  whatever  we  may 
think  of  her  own.  She  wrote  a  succession  of 
Elegies,  Monodies,  and  Odes ;  Sonnets,  Poetical 
Epistles,  and  Adieus;  all  about  Capt.  Cook  and  Major 
Andre,  and  a  variety  of  other  notables ;  also  a 
metrical  novel,  "  Louisa,"  and  laid  claim  to  the  first 
fifty  lines  of  Dr.  Darwin's  "  Botanic  Garden  "  ;  was 
afterwards  his  biographer,  a  real  misfortune  for  the 
doctor's  fame,  though  a  ludicrous  one.  Walter  Scott, 
who  was  her  literary  executor,  pronounced  her  two 
volumes  of  poems  "  absolutely  execrable,"  and  her  six 
volumes  of  published  correspondence  proved  an 
utter  failure.  I  grieve  to  say  that  this  voluminous 
publication  was  regarded  as  a  display  of  "  vanity, 
egotism,  and  malignity  !  " 


20  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

Leigh  Hunt  says,  "  Miss  Seward  is  affected  and 
superfluous,  but  now  and  then  she  writes  a  goop 
line,  for  example  : 

'  And  sultry  silence  brooded  o'er  the  hills,' 

and  she  can  paint  a  natural  picture."  Horace  Walpole 
wrote  to  the  Countess  of  Ossory,  "  Misses  Seward 
and  Williams,  and  half  a  dozen  more  of  those  har 
monious  virgins,  have  no  imagination,  no  novelty. 
Their  thoughts  and  phrases  are  like  their  gowns, 
old  remnants  cut  and  turned."  Her  style  is  the  acme 
of  high-flownativeness  and  stewed  prunism.  She 
says  that  Dr.  Darwin  purchased  about  the  year  1777, 
"  a  little  wild  umbrageous  valley,  a  mile  from  Litch- 
field,  irriguous  from  various  springs  and  swampy 
from  their  plentitude." 

When  this  bog  was  transformed  into  a  Paradise, 
she  took  her  tablets  and  pencil  and,  seated  on  a 
flowery  bank  in  the  midst  of  that  luxurious  retreat, 
composed  some  lines,  "  while  the  sun  was  gilding 
the  glen,  and  while  birds  of  every  plume  poured 
their  songs  from  the  boughs." 

Four  lines  from  the  "  Botanic  Garden "  will 
suffice  for  a  specimen  : 

"  My  plumy  pairs  in  gay  embroidery  dressed, 
Form  with  ingenious  bill  the  pensile  nest, 
To  Love's  sweet  notes  attune  the  listening  dell, 
And  Echo  sounds  her  soft  symphonious  shell." 

Richard  Lovell  Edge  worth,  the  eccentric  father 
of  Maria,  who  liked  to  pose  as  a  bachelor,  met  Miss 
Seward  at  Litchfield,  when  "  she  was  in  the  height  of 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  21 

youth  and  beauty,  of  an  enthusiastic  temper,  a 
votary  of  the  Muses,  and  of  the  most  eloquent  and 
brilliant  conversation."  He  adds  that  Mrs.  Darwin 
had  a  little  pique  against  Miss  Seward,  who  had  in 
fact  been  her  rival  with  the  doctor.  "  At  Mrs.  Dar 
win's  tea-table  I  was  placed  next  Miss  Seward,  and  a 
number  of  lively  sallies  escaped  her  that  set  the 
table  in  good  humor.  I  remember  she  repeated 
some  of  Prior's  "  Henry  and  Emma,"  and  dwelling 
upon  Emma's  tenderness  she  cited  the  care  that  she 
^proposed  to  take  of  her  lover  if  he  were  wounded, 

"  To  bind  his  wounds  my  finest  lawns  I'd  tear, 
Wash  them  with  tears,  and  wipe  them  with  my  hair." 

I  represented  that  the  lady  who  must  have  had 
by  her  own  account  a  choice  of  lawns  might  have 
employed  some  of  the  coarse  sort  for  this  operation 
instead  of  having  recourse  to  her  hair.  I  then  paid 
Miss  Seward  some  compliments  on  her  own  beauti 
ful  tresses,  and  at  that  moment  the  watchful  Mrs. 
Darwin  took  this  opportunity  of  drinking  Mrs. 
EdgcwortJi  s  health." 

As  Americans,  we  ought  to  think  kindly  of  Miss 
Seward,  as  she  was  on  our  side  during  the  War  for 
Independence.  Boswell  has  recorded  Johnson's  re 
mark,  "  I  am  willing  to  love  all  mankind  except  an 
American,"  adding  that  "  his  inflammable  corrup 
tions  bursting  with  horrid  fire,  he  breathed  out 
threatenings  and  slaughter,  calling  them  rascals,  rob 
bers,  and  pirates,  and  exclaiming  he'd  burn  'em  and 
destroy  "em."  Miss  Seward,  looking  to  him  with  mild 


22  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

but  steady  astonishment,  said :  "  Sir,  this  is  an 
instance  that  we  are  always  most  violent  against 
those  whom  we  have  injured."  Johnson  said  to  Miss 
Seward,  "  Madam,  there  is  not  anything  equal  to 
your  description  of  the  sea  round  the  North  Pole,  in 
your  ode  on  the  death  of  Captain  Cook." 

In  one  of  her  letters  she  exclaims :  "  How  prone 
are  our  hearts  perversely  to  quarrel  with  the  friendly 
coercion  of  employment  at  the  very  instant  in  which 
it  is  clearing  the  torpid  and  injurious  mists  of  una 
vailing  melancholy.""* 

We  come  next  to  Jane  Austen  (1755-1817),  who, 
like  Mrs.  Browning,  has  been  called  "a  feminine 
Shakespeare."  Her  life  was  most  simple  and  se 
cluded,  domestic,  and  she  really  wrote  for  her  own 
amusement  —  idolized  by  her  nephews  and  nieces, 
who  were  always  pleading  to  go  to  "Auntie's  Room  " 
for  a  frolic,  a  petting,  or  a  story.  It  was  not  then 
thought  desirable  for  young  ladies  to  study  or  write, 
so  Miss  Austen  compromised  matters  by  a  large  piece 
of  fancy  work  kept  on  parlor  table  to  hide  her  manu 
scripts  when  callers  appeared.  Much  money  was 
not  necessary  for  the  moderate  expenses  of  her  quiet 
home,  and  so  modestly  did  she  estimate  her  work, 
that  when  she  received  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
from  the  sale  of  "  Sense  and  Sensibility,"  she  consid 
ered  it  a  prodigious  recompense.  She  called  her  ex 
quisite  word  painting  "  little  bits  of  ivory,  two  inches 

*This  sort  of  writing  emigrated   to  America,  but  died  with  Mrs. 
Sigourney. 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  23 

wide."  She  never  posed  as  a  literary  light,  had  a 
dislike  of  being  lionized,  was  a  little  embarrassed 
when  introductions  were  sought,  saying,  "  If  I  am  a 
wild  beast  I  cannot  help  it ;  it  is  not  my  fault."  She 
wrote  early  two  of  her  masterpieces,  published  before 
she  was  twenty-one. 

We  always  like  to  know  how  such  a  famous 
person  looked.  She  was  tall,  slender,  with  clear  bru 
nette  complexion,  fine  rich  color,  hazel  eyes,  brown 
curling  hair. 

"She  was  lively,  graceful,  witty,  a  good  dancer, 
fond  of  a  good  play,  a  little  satirical,  full  of  quiet 
humor,  and  very  lovable.  She  had  many  admirers, 
flirted  a  little,  loved  seriously  once,  another  unfor 
tunate  romance  which  Miss  Thackeray  speaks  of, 
and  then  settled  down  with  her  beloved  sister  Cas 
sandra,  to  a  quiet  old  maid  life,  in  a  happ)'  home. 
Miss  Mitford,  one  of  her  warmest  admirers,  declared 
she  would  almost  be  willing  to  cut  off  one  of  her 
hands  if  it  would  enable  her  to  write  like  Miss  Austen 
with  the  other. 

Walter  Scott,  after  reading  "  Pride  and  Preju 
dice  "  for  the  third  time,  said :  "  That  young  lady 
had  a  talent  for  describing  the  involvements,  feel 
ings,  and  characters  of  ordinary  life,  which  is  to  me 
the  most  wonderful  I  ever  met  with.  The  big  bow- 
ivoiu  I  can  do  myself,  like  any  one  going ;  but  her 
exquisite  touch  is  denied  to  me.  What  a  pity  that 
so  gifted  a  creature  died  so  early  !  " 

Coleridge  would  sometimes  burst  out  into  high 


24  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

encomiums  of  her  novels  as  being  in  their  way 
perfectly  genuine  and  individual  productions,  and 
Archbishop  Whately  was  an  enthusiast  in  her 
praise. 

Macaulay,  with  all  his  love  for  new  novels,  seemed 
never  to  tire  of  hers,  and  called  her  a  prose  Shakes 
peare.  He  intended  to  write  her  memoir,  and  erect 
a  monument  to  her  memory  with  the  proceeds.  This 
biography,  which  would  have  been  her  best  monu 
ment,  he  never  accomplished,  but  in  his  letters  we 
find  constant  allusions  to  his  delight  in  reading  her 
stories.  In  our  day  such  a  woman  would  have  had 
her  memoirs  written  by  enthusiastic  admirers  before 
the  breath  had  left  her  body.  But  her  talent,  her 
rare  gift  of  depicting  every-day  types  in  daily  life 
with  pre-Raphaelite  distinctness  and  truth,  was  fully 
appreciated  by  many  of  England's  most  famous  men. 
vSeven  distinguished  men,  among  them  Hallam  and 
Macaulay,  being  asked  at  a  dinner  party  to  mention 
the  novel  which  had  given  them  the  most  pleasure, 
gave  the  name  as  Mansfield  Park,  by  Jane  Austen. 

Miss  Thackeray  says  :  "  The  simple  family  annals 
are  not  without  their  romance,  but  there  is  a  cruel 
one  for  poor  Cassandra,  whose  lover  dies  abroad  and 
his  death  saddens  the  whole  family  party." 

Jane,  too,  "  receives  the  addresses  "  (do  such  things 
as  addresses  exist  nowadays  ?)  of  a  gentleman  pos 
sessed  of  good  character  and  fortune  and  of  every 
thing  in  short  except  the  subtle  power  of  touching 
her  heart." 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  25 

And  another  sorrowful  story.  The  sisters'  fate 
(there  is  a  sad  coincidence  and  similarity  in  it)  was 
to  be  undivided,  their  life,  their  experience,  was  the 
same.  Some  one  without  a  name  takes  leave  of 
Jane  one  day,  promising  to  come  back.  He  never 
comes  back  ;  long  afterwards  they  hear  of  his  death. 
The  story  seems  even  sadder  than  Cassandra's,  in  its 
silence  and  uncertainty,  for  silence  and  uncertainty 
are  death  in  life  to  some  people." 

\^e  have  a  picture  of  Lord  Holland  lying  on  his 
bed,  agonizing  with  an  attack  of  gout,  while  his  sister 
sat  beside  him  diverting  his  mind  with  one  of  Miss 
Austen's  novels,  of  which  he  never  wearied. 

And  Sydney  Smith,  more  than  once,  dwelt  with 
eloquence  on  her  merits,  and  said  he  should  have 
enjoyed  giving  her  the  pleasure  of  reading  her 
praises  in  the  "  Edinburgh."  George  Eliot  consid 
ered  her  the  greatest  artist  that  has  ever  written  ; 
the  most  perfect  master  over  the  means  to  her  end, 
"  surpassing  all  male  novelists."  Tennyson  and 
Howells  are  her  devoted  admirers. 

Her  novels  have  been  translated  into  French,  and 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  of  February,  1863,  you  will 
find  an  excellent  article  on  this  charming  woman. 
To  say  that  the  Prince  Regent  read  and  liked  her 
stories  and  invited  her  to  examine  his  library  seems 
a  small  honor  in  comparison  with  the  appreciation 
of  the  others  mentioned.  With  all  her  fondness  for 
literary  work  she  was  a  true  woman,  fond  of  chil 
dren,  amusing  them  with  stories,  playful  doggerel, 


26  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

and  merry  games,  skillful  with  her  needle,  embroid 
ering  exquisitely,  "great  in  satin-stitch,"  sang  sweetly, 
and  played  well  on  piano. 

She  inherited  her  love  of  fun  from  her  witty  and 
agreeable  grandfather,  of  whom  Mrs.  Thrall  wrote 
to  Dr.  Johnson  :  "Are  you  acquainted  with  Dr.  Leigh, 
master  of  Balliol  College,  and  are  you  not  delighted 
with  his  gaiety  of  manner  and  youthful  vivacity  now 
that  he  is  eighty-six  years  of  age  ?"  When  some 
one  told  him  how,  in  a  dispute  among  the  Priory 
Counsellors,  the  Lord  Chancellor  struck  the  table 
with  such  violence  that  he  split  it.  "  No,  no,"  re 
plied  the  master,  "  I  can't  persuade  myself  that  he 
split  the  table,  though  I  believe  he  divided  the 
board." 

He  was  once  calling  on  a  gentleman  notorious  for 
never  opening  a  book,  who  ushered  him  into  a  room 
overlooking  the  Bath  Road,  then  a  great  thorough 
fare  for  travelers  of  every  class,  remarking,  rather  pom 
pously,  "  This,  Doctor,  I  call  my  study."  Dr.  Leigh, 
glancing  around  the  room  in  which  not  a  book  was 
to  be  seen,  replied,  "  And  very  well  named  too,  sir, 
for  you  know  Pope  tells  us,  "  The  proper  study  of 
mankind  is  man."  Only  three  days  before  he  died, 
being  told  of  a  man  whom  his  friends  regarded  as 
egged  on  to  matrimony,  as  he  married  after  a  long 
illness  cured  by  eating  eggs,  he  trumped  the  joke 
saying,  "  Then  may  the  YOKE  sit  easy  on  him." 

Two  of  Miss  Austen's  epigrams  have  been  pre 
served.  The  first  was  suggested  by  reading  in  a 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  27 

newspaper  the  marriage  of  Mr.  Gell  to  Miss  Gill  of 
Eastborne. 

"  At  Eastburn,  Mr.  Gell,  from  being  perfectly  well, 
Became  dreadfully  ill  for  love  of  Miss  Gill  ; 
So  he  said  with  some  sighs,  '  I'm  the  slave  of  your  ii's, 
Restore  if  you  please,  by  accepting  my  ee's.'  " 

The  second  on  the  marriage  of  a  middle-aged 
flirt  with  a  Mr.  Wake,  whom  gossips  averred  she 
wottld  have  scorned  in  her  prime. 

"  Maira,  good-humored,  and  handsome  and  tall, 

For  a  husband  was  at  her  last  stake, 
And  having  in  vain  danced  at  many  a  ball, 

Is  now  happy  to  jump  at  a   Wake  !  " 

Her  novels  were  at  first  published  anonymously, 
which  prevented  her  enjoying  the  praise  they  re 
ceived.  She  received  seven  hundred  pounds  for  her 
novels.  The  old  verger  in  Winchester  Cathedral 
had  been  so  often  asked  to  point  out  her  grave,  that 
he  inquired  of  some  traveler  if  "  she  ever  did  any 
thing  in  particular."  She  had  a  happy,  peaceful  life 
and  left  behind  an  enduring  fame. 

Jane  Porter,  another  novelist,  now  comes  upon 
the  scene  (1776-1850).  She  began  the  system  of  his 
torical  novel-writing  which  attained  the  climax  of 
renown  in  the  hands  of  Scott.  Like  Jane  Austen, 
she  lived  in  a  very  quiet  way  with  her  mother  and 
her  sister  Anna,  who  also  wrote  novels.  All  that  we 
need  to  know  of  her  is  that  she  wrote  "  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw  "  and  the  "  Scottish  Chiefs,"  both  of  which 
were  famous  in  their  day. 


28  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

Thaddeus  was  translated  into  several  of  the  Con 
tinental  languages.  A  relation  of  the  Polish  Patriot, 
Kosciusko,  sent  her  a  gold  ring  containing  a  minia 
ture  of  the  hero,  and  Gen.  Gardiner,  who  was  then 
British  Ambassador  at  the  Court  of  Stanislaus,  could 
hardly  believe  that  some  of  the  scenes  could  have 
been  described  by  one  who  was  not  an  eye  witness. 
In  1809,  appeared  the  Scottish  Chiefs,  and  Scott  ad 
mitted  to  George  IV  that  this  was  the  veritable  be 
getter  of  the  Waverly  novels. 

There  was  a  touch  of  Old  World  and  sentimental 
eloquence  in  her  manners  which  we  shall  hardly  see 
reproduced.  She  conversed  like  an  accomplished 
woman  who  had  kept  much  worshipful  company  in 
her  time,without,  however,  the  slightest  parade  or  pre 
tension.  Maginn  in  "  The  Fraserians  "  (a  delightful 
book  to  own)  rambles  on  in  his  own  way  about  her, 
saying,  as  he  looked  at  her  picture,  "handsome  the 
face  is  still."  "  We  hope  Miss  Porter  has  sufficient 
philosophy  to  pardon  us  for  that  fatal  adverb.  Time 
and  tide  wait  for  no  man,  nor  woman  either,  and  there 
is  the  fact  extant  that  she  published  the  '  Spirit  of  the 
Elbe  '  in  1 800,  some  five-and-thirty  years  ago.  Al 
lowing  that  she  was  then  but  twenty,  it  brings  her 
now-a-days  to  the  Falstaffian  age  of  some  seven-and- 
fifty,  or  inclining  to  threescore.  Many  a  lady  of  Miss 
Porter's  standing,  if  she  had  kept  Miss  Porter's  good 
looks,  could  well  smuggle  off  ten  or  a  dozen  years 
from  the  account  if  she  had  not  dabbled  in  printer's 
work.  Joe  Miller  informs  us  that  a  coal  porter  hav- 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  29 

ing  inquired  what  the  crime  was  for  which  he  saw  a 
man  hanging  at  Tyburn  tree,  and  being  told  it  was 
forgery,  exclaimed :  '  Ah !  that's  what  comes  of 
knowing  how  to  read  and  write,  my  good  fellow  ! ' 

"  We  are  tempted  to  make  a  similar  exclamation 
when  we  find  a  lady  rendering  the  footsteps  of 
time  traceable  by  manifesting  her  powers  of  pen 
manship." 

"  In  private  she  is  a  quiet  and  good-humored  lady, 
rather  pious  and  fond  of  going  to  evening  parties, 
where  she  generally  contrives  to  be  seen  patronizing 
some  sucking  lion  or  lioness.  In  which  occupation 
may  she  long  continue,  devoting  her  mornings  to 
the  prayer-book  and  the  evenings  to  the  conversa 
zione. 

' '  And  may  no  ill  event  cut  shorter 
The  easy  course  of  Miss  Jane  Porter." 

Joanna  Baillie,  1762-1798,  being  a  veritable  Scotch 
woman,  can  hardly  be  classed  among  the  English 
spinsters,  although  she  spent  most  of  her  long  life 
near  London,  the  center  of  a  literary  circle,  literally 
the  friend  of  two  generations  of  authors.  Her  ambi 
tion  was  to  be  a  dramatist,  and  her  plan  to  devote  a 
play  to  each  passion,  but  they  were  very  poor  imita 
tions  of  Shakespeare  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  just 
as  her  Scottish  songs  have  the  rhyme  and  the  pro 
nunciation  of  Burns  without  his  spice  and  spirit  and 
soul.  There  was  a  want  of  business  in  her  scenes. 
Her  stock  of  words  was  deplorably  scanty,  her  pages 
were  marred  by  affectations  of  antiquated  phrase- 


30  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

ology,  and  she  unduly  magnified   little   things,  as 
when  alluding  to  goose  flesh  she  says : 

"  When  every  hair-pit  in  my  shrunken  skin 
A  knotted  knoll  becomes." 

Not  a  pleasing  idea  of  the  state  of  that  young 
woman's  person. 

The  Edinburgh  Review  decided  that  she  must 
not  write  comedies  and  could  not  possibly  write  a 
tragedy. 

Still,  her  name  commands  attention.  No  woman 
before  had  attempted  so  high  a  vein  of  poetry. 

When  she  first  appeared,  the  drama  throughout 
England  seemed  expiring,  and  she  roused  it  to 
new  life. 

Mrs.  Siddons  and  Kemble,  both  acted  in  De 
Montfort,  and  that  would  make  anything  a  success. 

She  made  the  mistake  of  attempting  too  much. 
Her  voice  was  pitched  for  a  more  select  audience, 
not  for  the  public. 

Her  fireside  lyrics  are  quite  charming.  Very 
appropriately  (as  an  old  maid)  she  wrote  poetical 
addresses  to  her  Kitten  and  a  Teapot,  both  of  them 
worth  reading,  and  a  touching  tribute  to  her  sister, 
Agnes,  a  spinster,  too,  with  whom  she  had  lived  for 
years,  and  to  whom  she  was  thoroughly  devoted. 

Scott,  who  always  said  such  kind  things  of 
women,  declared  "  that  her  merit  as  a  dramatist  was 
so  great  to  prevent  all  attempts  at  competition  on 
his  part,"  and  Lord  Byron  said:  "Women  (saving 
Joanna  Baillie)  cannot  write  tragedy  ;  they  have 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  31 

not  seen  enough  nor  felt  enough  of  life  for  it."  Yet 
Byron,  when  invited  to  attend  this  good  woman  to 
the  opera,  sat  and  made  faces  at  her  all  the  evening. 

As  Maria  Edgeworth  (1767-1849)  was  proud  to  be 
called  an  Irish  woman  and  Irish  Story  Teller,  she 
will  not  be  dwelt  upon  in  this  rapid  survey.  She 
has  lately  had  a  great  deal  of  attention,  Mrs.  Grace 
Oliver  having  written  her  life  and  also  edited  some 
of  her  stories,  and  she  figures  in  the  "Eminent 
Women  "  series.  This  will  gratify  Donald  Mitchell, 
who,  in  a  book  for  children,  devotes  a  chapter  to  her. 
"  Those  stories  which  were  the  delight  of  all  young 
people  forty  years  ago,  and  those  novels  which  were 
the  delight  of  all  the  grown  people  of  her  time,"  and 
pleads  that  it  is  quite  too  soon  to  forget  good  Miss 
Edgeworth  and  her  books.  Like  Miss  Baillie,  she 
aimed  to  make  each  work  an  elucidation  of  one 
passion  or  one  vice.  Scott  averred  that  it  was  her 
tender,  humorous,  admirable  delineations  of  Irish 
character  which  led  him  to  do  the  same  thing  for 
his  country,  and  Tourgenieff,  the  late  Russian  nov 
elist,  said  he  should  never  have  written  about  the 
woes  of  the  peasanty  of  his  land  if  not  inspired  by 
what  Miss  Edgeworth  had  done. 

The  Life  and  Letters  of  Maria  Edgeworth  have 
been  edited  by  Augustus  J.  C.  Hare.  She  said : 

"As  a  woman,  my  life,  wholly  domestic,  can  offer 
nothing  of  interest  to  the  public." 

Macaulay  considered  her  "the  second  woman  of 
her  age." 


32  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

Scott  said  of  Simple  Susan  that  when  the  boy 
brings  back  the  lamb  to  the  little  girl,  there  is  noth 
ing  for  it  but  to  put  down  the  book  and  cry.  She 
remarked  of  Madame  Roland,  "She  was  a  great 
woman  and  died  heroically,  but  I  don't  think  she 
became  more  amiable  and  certainly  not  more  happy 
by  meddling  with  politics  ;  for — her  head  is  cut  off 
and  her  husband  has  shot  himself."  Here  is  a 
capital  epigram : 

"  Theory  was  born  in  Brobdignag  and  Practice  in 
Lilliput." 

Next  in  order,  Jane  Taylor,  1783-1824.  The 
"  Original  Poems  for  Infant  Minds,  by  the  Taylor 
Family,"  did  a  great  and  good  work  in  their  day. 
They  sound  oddly  enough  now,  and  the  little  folks 
accustomed  to  the  delicious  nonsense  verses  of  Ed 
ward  Lear,  the  grotesque  playfulness  of  the  rhymes 
in  Lewis  Carrol's  stories,  and  the  really  beautiful 
poetry  now  written  expressly  for  their  delectation, 
would  hardly  relish  these  crude  efforts  to  instruct 
children  by  means  of  poetry  suited  to  their  capacity. 

The  preface  alludes  to  them  as  "  that  interesting 
little  race,"  as  if  they  were  a  quite  distinct  species 
from  their  parents  • —  like  the  Aztecs  ! 

The  book  opens  rather  dismally.  First  poem, 
"  The  Churchyard." 

"  And  see,  from  those  darkly  green  trees 
Of  cypress  and  holly  and  yew, 
That  wave  their  black  arms  in  the  breeze, 
The  old  village  church  is  in  view. 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  33 

The  owl  from  her  ivied  retreat 
Screams  hoarse  to  the  winds  of  the  night, 
And  the  clock  with  its  solemn  repeat 
Has  tolled  the  departure  of  night." 

This  is  followed  by  a  cheerful,  alluring  invitation : 

"  My  child,  let  us  wander  alone, 

When  half  the  wide  world  is  in  bed, 

And  read  o'er  the  mouldering  stone 

That  tells  of  the  mouldering  dead. 
-And  let  us  remember  it  well, 

That  we  must  as  certainly  die  ; 
/For  us,  too,  may  toll  the  sad  bell, 

And  in  the  cold  earth  we  must  lie. 

"  You  are  not  so  healthy  and  gay, 
So  young,  so  active,  and  bright, 
That  death  cannot  snatch  you  away, 
Or  some  dreadful  accident  smite. 
Here  lie  both  the  young  and  the  old, 
Confined  in  the  coffin  so  small, 
And  the  earth  closes  over  them  cold, 
And  the  grave-worm  devours  them  all." 

In  a  poem  on  "Beasts,  Birds,  and  Fishes," 
Adelaide  Taylor  managed  to  bring  in  a  metrical 
catalogue  an  entire  menagerie,  without  the  slightest 
connection : 

' '  The  Dog  will  come  when  he  is  called, 
The  Cat  will  walk  away, 
The  Monkey's  cheek  is  very  bald, 
The  Goat  is  fond  of  play, 
The  Parrot  is  a  prate-a-pace,  • 
Yet  knows  not  what  she  says, 
The  noble  Horse  will  win  the  race, 
Or  draw  you  in  a  chaise. 
The  Sparrow  steals  the  cherry  ripe, 


34  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

The  Elephant  is  wise, 

The  Blackbird  charms  you  with  his  pipe, 

The  false  Hyena  cries, 

The  Hen  guards  well  her  little  chicks, 

The  useful  Cow  is  meek, 

The  Beaver  builds  with  mud  and  sticks, 

The  Lapwing  loves  to  squeak. 

The  spotted  Tiger's  fond  of  blood, 

The  Pigeon  feeds  on  peas, 

The  Duck  will  gobble  in  the  mud, 

The  Mice  will  eat  your  cheese, 

A  Lobster's  black,  when  boiled  he's  red. 

The  harmless  Lamb  must  bleed, 

The  Codfish  has  a  clumsy  head, 

The  Goose  on  grass  will  feed." 

The  moral,  from  which  there  is  no  escape,  comes 
at  the  close  of  the  ninth  verse  : 

"  The  child  that  does  not  these  things  know, 

May  yet  be  thought  a  dunce  ; 

But  I  will  up  in  knowledge  grow, 

As  youth  can  come  but  once." 

Jane,  tinder  the  nom  de  plume  "  Q.  Q.  "  (a  doubly 
Qrious  signature),  published  two  small  volumes  of 
tiresome,  sermonizing  essays,  relieved  occasionally 
by  something  really  bright  and  entertaining,  like 
the  "  Discontented  Pendulum,"  an  allegory  so  popu 
lar  with  our  grandmothers,  found  in  most  of  the 
reading  books  of  the  last  generation,  and  how  used 
by  elocutionists  as  an  example  of  the  circumflex,  as 
employed  to  express  irony  and  gentle  sarcasm  : 

"  It  is  vastly  easy  for  you,  Mistress  Dial,  who 
have  always,  as  everybody  knows,  set  yourself  up 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  35 

above  me  —  it  is  vastly  easy  for  you,  I  say,  to  accuse 
other  people  of  laziness." 

And  "  the  Weights,  who  had  never  been  accused 
of  light  conduct." 

But  there  is  little  of  that  sort.  The  reading  for 
children  was  either  in  the  form  of  a  short  sermon  or  a 
prolonged  conundrum,  in  stilted,  formal  language. 
Due  credit  must  be  given  to  Jane  Taylor  and  her 
sisters,  for  their  work  was  far  better  than  any  that 
preceded  it.  Some  of  the  best  have  lately  been 
revived  and  published. 

And  now  we  come  to  dear,  rosy,  sunny-faced, 
brave-hearted  Miss  Mitford  (1786-1855),  whose  life 
was  one  long  struggle,  hidden  by  a  patient,  cheery 
smile ;  the  highest  type  of  a  dutiful,  loving  daughter. 
Her  mother  was  an  heiress,  her  father  a  handsome, 
lazy,  selfish  spendthrift  and  gambler,  who  utterly 
ruined  their  future  by  wasting  all  the  money  of  the 
mother.  She  won,  at  the  age  of  ten,  twenty  thou 
sand  pounds  in  a  lottery  ticket,  and  Dr.  Mitford  prom 
ised  to  settle  this  sum  on  her,  but  this  was  soon 
squandered,  like  the  wife's  fortune.  As  Mr.  Stod- 
dard  puts  it :  "  To  sum  Dr.  Mitford  up  in  a  word,  he 
was  a  beast." 

So  the  brave  little  woman  had  to  support  both, 
and  did  it  without  a  murmur,  for  he  had  not  even  the 
grace  to  die,  but  lived  on  most  unconscionably  until 
his  child  nearly  broke  down  under  the  terrible  weight. 

She  says :  "  If  he  could  tell  how  debt  presses  upon 
the  mind  —  upon  the  heart,  as  if  it  were  a  sin,  and 


36  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

sometimes,  I  do  believe,  makes  me  ill,  when  other 
wise  I  should  be  well,  he  would  be  more  careful. 
But  men  do  not  change  at  eighty." 

"  I  am  doubly  thankful  to  have  my  dear  father 
spared  to  me.  If  I  could  but  give  my  whole  life  to 
him,  reading  to  him,  driving  out  with  him,  playing 
cribbage  with  him,  never  five  minutes  away  from 
him,  except  when  he  is  asleep  —  for  this  is  what 
makes  him  happy  —  it  would  be  the  breath  of  Ijfe 
to  me !  " 

After  he  was  utterly  ruined  financially,  she 
writes :  "  Whatever  your  embarrassments  may  be, 
of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  that  the  world  does  not 
contain  so  proud,  so  happy,  or  so  fond  a  daughter. 
I  would-  not  exchange  my  father,  even  though  we 
toiled  together  for  our  daily  bread,  for  any  man  on 
earth,  though  he  could  pour  all  the  gold  of  Peru 
into  my  lap." 

He  died  at  eighty-two,  deep  in  debt.  "  Every 
body  shall  be  paid,"  wrote  Mary,  "  if  I  sell  the  gown 
off  my  back,  or  pledge  my  little  pension." 

Poetry  was  not  her  forte,  but  she  wrote  many 
poetic  dramas,  some  of  which  were  quite  successful 
when  put  on  the  stage.  Her  most  popular  work  was 
a  series  .of  sketches  called  "  Our  Village."  The 
first  volume  passed  through  fourteen  editions,  and 
Stoddard  declares  that  "  never  before  or  since  has 
the  country  been  painted  with  such  a  loving  and 
accurate  pencil  as  hers."  She  also  published  two 
poor  novels  and  several  volumes  of  poetry,  but  she 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  37 

was  neither  poet  nor  novelist.  Her  "  Recollections 
of  a  Literary  Life,"  and  her  letters  will  always  be 
enjoyed. 

In  the  letters  of  Mrs.  Browning  to  Richard 
Home  frequent  allusions  are  made  to  her  friend, 
Miss  Mitford,  and  visits  to  Three  Mile  Cross,  the 
original  of  "  Our  Village." 

'  She  says,  "  It  would  be  impossible  for  any  en 
graving  or  photograph,  however  excellent  as  to 
features,  to  convey  a  true  likeness  of  Mary  Russell 
Mitford.  During  one  of  these  visits  Charlotte  Cush- 
man  was  also  staying  at  the  cottage,  and  exclaimed 
the  first  time  Miss  Mitford  left  the  room,  "  What  a 
bright  face  it  is !  "  This  effect  of  summer  bright 
ness  all  over  the  countenance  was  quite  remarkable. 
A  floral  flush  overspread  the  whole  face,  which 
seemed  to  carry  its  own  light  with  it,  for  it  was  the 
same  indoors  as  out.  The  silver  hair  shone,  the 
forehead  shone,  the  cheeks  shone,  and  above  all  the 
eyes  shone  ;  it  was  very  like  a  rosy  apple  in  the 
sun.  The  forehead  and  chin  were  strong. 

She  was,  to  speak  the  truth,  decidedly  fat, 
and  always  craved  elegance  of  style  and  figure,  dis 
liking  what  she  called  her  "  rotundity  and  rubicund- 
ity." 

Her  "  Recollections  "  are  full  of  agreeable  anec 
dotes  ;  her  criticisms  one-sided  and  worthless. 

From  the  "  Noctes  Ambrosianas  "  : 

Shepherd. —  "I'm  just  verra  fond  o'  that  lassie 
Mitford.  She  has  an  ee  like  a  hawk's  that  misses 


38  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

naething  however  far  aff,  and  yet  like  a  dove's,  that 
sees  only  what  is  nearest  and  dearest  and  round 
about  the  hame  circle  o'  its  central  nest.  I'm  just 
excessive  fond  o'  Miss  Mitford.  I'm  fond  o'  a  gude 
female  writers.  They're  a  bonnie  and  every  passage 
they  write  carries,  as  it  ought  to  do,  their  femininity 
alang  wi  it.  The  young  gentlemen  of  England  should 
be  ashamed  o'  theirsells  for  letting  her  name  be  Mit 
ford.  They  should  marry  her  whether  she  will  or 
no,  for  she  wad  mak  baith  a  useful  and  agreeable 
wife.  That's  the  best  creetishism  on  her  warks." 

I  find  but  one  allusion  anywhere  to  matrimony, 
and  this  in  a  note  to  some  one  who  congratulated 
her  on  a  supposed  approach  of  that  condition  : 

"  Alas !  my  dear  friend,  you  are  quite  mistaken,  I 
assure  you,  I  am  not  going  to  be  married.  '  No  such 
good  luck,'  as  papa  says.  I  have  not  been  courted, 
and  I  am  not  in  love.  So  much  for  this  question. 
If  I  ever  should  happen  to  be  going  to  be  married 
(elegant  construction  this)  I  will  then  not  fail  to  let 
you  into  the  secret,  but  alas  !  alas  !  alas  ! !  In  such 
a  then  I  write  a  never." 

It  is  related  of  the  dear  old  lady  that  she  once 
went  to  an  evening  party  wearing  a  peculiarly 
showy  cap  from  which  she  had  forgotten  to  remove 
the  price  mark,  and  walked  about  in  her  gracious 
way  with  "  Cheap  at  one  pound  six,"  on  a  fluttering 
ribbon,  in  benign  unconsciousness  of  her  ludicrous 
oversight. 

Miss  Sedgwick's  visit  to  Miss  Mitford. 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  39 

"  She  led  us  directly  through  the  house  into  her 
garden,  a  perfect  bouquet  of  flowers.  '  I  must  show 
you  my  geraniums  while  it  is  light,  for  I  love  them 
next  to  my  father.'  The  garden  is  filled,  matted 
with  flowering  shrubs  and  vines.  The  trees  are 
wreathed  with  honeysuckles  and  roses,  and  the  girls 
have  brought  away  the  most  splendid  specimens  of 
heartsease  to  press  in  their  journals.  Oh,  that  I 
could  give  my  countrywomen  a  vision  of  this  little 
paradise  of  flowers  that  they  might  learn  how  taste 
and  industry  and  an  earnest  love  and  study  of  the 
art  of  garden  culture  might  triumph  over  small  space 
and  humble  means." 

You  remember  Mrs.  Browning's  sonnet : 
TO  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

IN    HER    GARDEN. 

"  What  time  I  lay  these  rhymes  anear  thy  feet, 
Benignant  friend,  I  will  not  proudly  say, 
As  better  poets  use,  '  These  flowers  I  lay,' 
Because  I  would  not  wrong  thy  roses  sweet, 
Blaspheming  so  their  name.     And  yet  repeat, 
Thou,  overleaning  them  this  springtime  day, 
With  heart  as  open  to  love  as  theirs  to  May. 
Low  rooted  verse  may  reach  some  heavenly  heart, 
Even  like  my  blossoms,  if  as  nature  true, 
Though  not  as  precious.     Thou  art  unperplext, 
Dear  friend,  in  whose  dear  writings  drops  the  dew, 
And  blow  the  natural  airs  —  thou  who  art  next 
To  nature's  self  in  cheering  the  world's  view  — 
To  preach  a  sermon  on  so  known  a  text." 

She  was  devotedly  fond  of  her  pets,  says  Mr. 
Fields. 


40  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

"  Her  voice  had  a  peculiar  ringing  sweetness  in 
it,  rippling  out  sometimes  like  a  beautiful  chime  of 
silver  bells.  When  she  told  a  comic  story,  hitting 
off  some  one  of  her  acquaintances,  she  joined  in  with 
the  laugh  at  the  end  with  great  heartiness  and 
naivett" 

"  Her  dogs  and  her  geraniums  were  her  great 
glories.  She  used  to  write  me  long  letters  about 
'  Fanchon,'  a  dog  whose  personal  acquaintance  I 
had  made." 

She  would  have  agreed  with  Hamerton :  "I 
humbly  thank  Divine  Providence  for  having  invented 
dogs." 

Walter  Savage  Landor  wrote  some  lines  to  her  a 
few  months  before  she  died : 

"  None  hath  told 

More  pleasing  tales  to  young  and  old. 
Fondest  she  was  of  Father  Thames, 
But  rambled  to  Hellenic  streams, 
Nor  even  then  could  any  tell 
The  country's  purer  charms  so  well 
As  Mary  Mitford." 

Harriet  Martineau  said  :  "  Miss  Mitford's  descrip 
tions  of  scenery,  brutes,  and  human  beings  have 
such  singular  merit  that  she  may  be  regarded  as  the 
founder  of  a  .new  style."  They  were  devoted 
friends.  She  was  grateful  for  the  kind  reception 
given  to  her  books  in  America.  "  It  takes  ten  years 
to  make  a  literary  reputation  in  England,  but  Amer 
ica  is  wiser  and  bolder  and  dares  to  say  at  once, 
'  This  is  fine.' '!  She  also  dared  to  say :  "  I  have  seen 


Spinster  Authors  of  England*  41 

things  of  Longfellow's  as  fine  as  anything  in  Camp 
bell  or  Coleridge  or  Tennyson  or  Hood."  As  an  old 
lady  she  was  as  lovely  as  a  winter  rose,  retaining  her 
vivacity  and  enthusiasm. 

"  I  love  poetry  and  people  as  well  at  sixty  as  I 
did  at  sixteen." 

In  summer  time  when  she  gave  strawberry  par 
ties  at  her  cottage,  the  road  leading  to  it  was 
crowded  with  carriages  of  all  the  rank  and  fashion 
in  the  country. 

Her  conversation  was  simply  charming;  con 
sidered  better  than  her  finished  compositions. 

She  was  a  successful  dramatist,  edited  several 
Annuals,  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  periodicals, 
wrote  delightful  letters,  but  she  will  live  through 
the  simple  annals  of  village  life,  which  are  so  natural 
and  vivid  that  they  seem  to  have  written  themselves. 

I  do  not  believe  it  is  generally  known  that  in 
1832  she  made  a  collection  of  American  Stories  for 
Young  People. 

She  said :  "  In  turning  over  a  large  mass  of  the 
lighter  literature  of  America,  the  little  books  in 
tended  for  children  appeared  to  me  to  possess 
peculiar  excellence,  distinguished  by  the  acute 
observation  and  cheerful  common  sense  to  be  ex 
pected  from  the  country  of  Franklin." 

She  retained  the  "Americanisms"  and  gave  her 
reason :  "  It  seems  to  me  no  mean  part  of  an  en 
larged  and  liberal  education  to  show  our  English 
children  that  the  standard  of  gentility  differs  in  dif- 


42  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

ferent  countries,  and  that  intelligent  and  cultivated 
people  may,  without  the  slightest  tincture  of  vul 
garity,  use  words  and  idioms  of  which  these  little 
exclusives  never  heard  before.  Thus,  in  America  a 
shop  is  called  a  store  and  autumn  the  fall,  and  chil 
dren  frequently  address  their  parents  with  the 
affectionate  and  homely  appellations  of  father  and 
mother,  instead  of  the  colder  and  more  infantile 
elegancies  of  papa  and  mamma." 

Miss  Martineau  (1802-1876),  seems  a  sharp  con 
trast  to  Miss  Mitford,  but  those  who  knew  her  best, 
testified  of  sweetness  as  well  as  strength.  No  one 
has  an  indifferent  opinion  about  her  if  he  studies 
her  character  at  all. 

Miss  Mitford  said :  "  The  woman  I  like  best  is 
Harriet  Martineau,  who  is  cheerful,  frank,  cordial, 
and  right-minded  in  a  very  high  degree." 

To  some  she  is  a  heroine  of  free  thought,  an 
uncrowned  queen.  "A  product  of  the  higher  culture 
of  the  nineteenth  century,"  or,  as  Mrs.  Browning 
sketched  her, 

"  The  noblest  female  intelligence  between  the  seas, 
As  sweet  as  spring;  as  ocean,  deep." 

Others  differ  so  positively  with  her  decisions,  that 
they  look  upon  her  as  repulsive  and  her  influence  as 
dangerous.  All  must  agree  as  to  her  ability.  No 
woman  of  modern  or  past  time  has  left  such  a  num 
ber  of  solid,  interesting,  instructive  books.  She 
wrote  with  unusual  power  and  facility  on  Political 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  43 

Economy,  History,  Psychology,  Education,  the  Forest 
and  Game  Laws,  Health,  Husbandry,  and  Handi 
craft,  The  Effect  of  Machinery  on  Wages,  The 
Relation  of  Wages  and  Population,  Free  Trade,  Pro 
tection,  was  a  successful  journalist,  a  regular  writer 
of  leaders  for  a  London  daily  (1642  Articles  for  Daily 
News],  shaping  the  current  politics  of  her  day,  in 
fluencing  men  and  nations.  Also  published  several 
volumes  of  travels,  books  for  children,  was  a  fre 
quent  contributor  to  the  best  reviews. 

She  wrote  a  series  of  tales  illustrating  important 
doctrines  of  Political  Economy,  saying  :  "  I  knew 
the  work  wanted  doing,  and  that  I  could  do  it." 
These  tales  had  a  tremendous  and  unlooked-for  suc 
cess. 

Lord  Brougham  declared  "  the  whole  Society  for 
the  Diffusion  of  Knowledge  had  been  driven  out  of 
the  field  by  a  little  deaf  woman  at  Norwich." 

When  she  visited  the  United  States  she  became 
an  abolitionist. 

W.  E.  Forster  said  :  "It  seemed  as  if  Harriet 
Martineau,  alone,  kept  England  straight  in  regard 
to  America."  She  was  a  practical  philanthropist, 
started  a  Mechanics'  Institute,  a  building  society, 
evening  lectures  for  the  people,  and  thought  of 
starting  a  correspondence  class. 

Even  when  kept  in  bed  by  illness,  she  went  on 
writing,  and  produced  that  pleasant  work,  "  Life  in  a 
Sick  Room."  She  managed  her  little  farm  at  Amble- 
side  with  the  skill  of  a  practical  agriculturist,  and 


44  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

was  regarded  as  an  affectionate  friend  and  peculiarly 
thoughtful  and  generous  neighbor. 

Here  I  pause  to  take  a  long  breath,  and  to  admire 
anew  such  versatility  of  achievement  under  such  de 
pressing 'Conditions.  She  said  :  "  My  life  has  had  no 
spring.  When  three  senses  out  of  five  are  deficient, 
the  difficulty  of  cheerful  living  is  great." 

Her  childish  days  were  pitiably  sad :  first,  as  a 
half-starved  body,  with  an  undemonstrative  mother, 
sternly  just,  and  lacking  in  common  tenderness,  then 
afflicted  with  the  wild  vagaries  of  a  diseased  imagin 
ation,  suffering  from  trifling  causes,  deprived  of  the 
sense  of  smell  and  of  taste,  and  at  twenty  hopelessly 
deaf.  Try  to  realize  her  position,  and  always  judge 
her  leniently.  She  determined  never  to  inquire 
what  was  said,  as  she  dreaded  becoming  a  burden  to 
her  friends.  •  She  felt  that  no  one  cared  for  her,  and 
when  her  brother  James  was  obliged  to  leave  her,  he 
advised  her  to  try  to  forget  her  loneliness  by  an  at 
tempt  at  authorship.  She  wrote  laboriously  at  first, 
"coldly  correct,"  and  without  marked  signs  'of 
genius,  choosing  the  Latin  noin  de  plume  "  Discipu- 
lus,"  a  masculine  name,  like  George  Sand,  George 
Eliot,  and  the  Bronte  sisters.  She  became  engaged, 
and  for  a  short  time  was  truly  happy.  She  poured 
out  her  soul  in  letters  and  in  disguised  characters  in 
print.  She  wrote  :  "  Do  you  really  think  there  are 
any  people  that  have  passed  through  life  without 
knowing  what  that  moment  was,  that  stir  in  one's 
heart,  as  being  first  sure  that  one  is  beloved  ?  It  is 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  45 

more  like  the  soul  getting  free  of  the  body  and 
rushing  into  Paradise,  I  should  think."  But  it  was, 
after  all,  a  sad  and  stormy  experience.  They  were 
both  abnormally  sensitive  and  over  anxious.  At  last 
her  lover  became  insane,  and  her  mother,  as  cruel  in 
her  way  as  Dr.  Mitford  in  his,  refused  to  allow  her 
daughter  to  visit  him.  It  was  inexcusable  prudish- 
ness.  After  his  death  came  the  sudden  loss  of  all 
their  property.  One  of  this  young  clergyman's 
causes  of  mental  distress  was  the  fact  that  Miss 
Martineau  had  wealth,  therefore  a  poor  man  ought 
not  to  try  to  win  her.  Not  a  prevailing  source  of 
anxiety  among  young  men  in  general !  And  as  all 
the  money  was  soon  to  be  swallowed  up  in  a  financial 
crash,  this  special  form  of  worry  was  quite  futile,  as 
is  all  worry.  Miss  Martineau  said  afterwards,  "  If  I 
had  a  husband  dependent  on  me  for  his  happiness, 
the  responsibility  would  have  made  me  wretched.  If 
he  had  not  depended  on  me  for  his  happiness,  I 
should  have  been  jealous."  It  was,  perhaps,  best  that 
her  lover  went  when  he  did  ! 

Her  fortitude,  energy,  and  persistence  should  not 
be  called  masculine,  but  womanly,  true  womanly  en 
durance  and  heroic  patience  and  courage. 

She  was  left  with  absolutely  only  one  shilling 
and  her  dreadful  mother  to  discourage  all  her  efforts, 
with  a  silly  aunt  who  gave  her  some  pieces  of  silk, 
lilac,  blue,  and  pink,  to  make  into  little  bags  to  earn 
a  few  pennies  !  Imagine  Harriet  Martineau  giving 
herself  up  to  making  patchwork  and  crazy  quilts ! 


46  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

She  was  never  impractical.  She  said :  "  I  could  make 
shirts  and  puddings,  and  iron  and  mend,  and  get  my 
bread  by  my  needle,  if  necessary.  And  at  first  she 
did  sew  all  day,  and  sit  up  most  of  the  night  to 
write.  Her  articles  were  often  refused,  and  the  pay 
for  a  long  time  was  ridiculously  small. 

"  It  was  truly  life  I  lived  in  those  days." 

In  March,  1830,  she  received  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
nine,  the  three  prizes  (£45)  offered  by  a  Unitarian 
Association  for  promoting  their  faith  among  the 
Roman  Catholics,  Mohammedans,  and  Jews,  a  con 
vincing  proof  of  her  ability.  She  was  deeply  relig 
ious  in  her  younger  days  and  prepared  a  small  vol 
ume  of  devotional  exercises,  prayer,  and  meditations 
for  the  use  of  young  people.  Later  on  she  lost  her 
faith  in  prayer,  and  finally  gave  up  all  belief  in  a 
future  existence.  "  I  have  no  wish  for  future  expe 
rience,  nor  have  I  any  fear  of  it.  I  am  frankly  sat 
isfied  to  have  done  with  life.  I  neither  wish  to  live 
longer  here  nor  to  find  life  elsewhere.  It  seems  to 
me  simply  absurd  to  expect  it." 

Her  last  year  was  spent  in  her  pretty  country 
home  at  Ambleside.  She  studied  practical  farming 
and  made  it  pay,  her  farm  of  two  acres  supporting 
the  laborer  and  his  wife,  and  the  home  had  a  con 
stant  supply  of  vegetables,  milk,  eggs,  etc. 

Mrs.  Wordsworth  pronounced  her  a  model  in 
household  economy ;  always  careful  to  make  her 
servants  happy.  Miss  Bronte  spoke,  after  a  week's 
visit,  of  the  combination  of  the  highest  mental  cult 
ure  with  the  nicest  discharge  of  feminine  duties. 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  47 

I  like  to  read  how  she  set  up  a  cross-pole  fence 
around  her  estate,  and,  like  a  true  woman,  planted 
roses  all  along  the  line  to  wreathe  and  decorate  it  in 
summer.  She  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  dearly 
loved  a  good  story,  was  truly  affectionate  in  private 
life,  with  a  warm  and  sensitive  heart ;  never  refused 
herself  to  children  callers.  By  the  way,  she  had  an 
immense  acquaintance  and  found  her  social  duties 
rather  irksome.  Sidney  Smith  advised  her  to  hire  a 
carriage  and  engage  an  inferior  authoress  to  go  round 
in  it  to  drop  her  cards. 

Her  complete  cure  by  magnetism,  after  years  of 
suffering,  excited  great  comment,  and,  as  a  result, 
her  beloved  brother  James  was  hopelessly  alienated 
from  her.  She  simply  dared  to  tell  the  truth  and 
express  gratitude  for  her  wonderful  recovery. 

Her  last  fancy  work  was  a  blanket  for  some  little 
baby.  Does  not  her  character  seem  less  hard  and 
unlovely  to  you  as  you  study  it  impartially?  De 
prived  of  all  that  is  best  and  most  precious  in  a 
woman's  life,  never  knowing  a  mother's  love,  shut 
out  by  her  deafness  from  the  society  where  she 
would  have  shone  so  brilliantly,  how  much  she 
accomplished,  how  nobly  she  struggled. 

As  a  spinster  author,  I  will  quote  one  of  her  sensi 
ble  remarks  about  marriage  :  "  Women  who  are  fur 
nished  with  but  one  object — marriage, must  be  as  unfit 
for  anything  when  that  aim  is  accomplished,  as  if  they 
never  had  any  object  at  all."  "  She  served  the 


48  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

Right,  that  is  God,  all  her  life,"  said  Florence  Night 
ingale. 

James  Payn,  in  his  "  Literary  Recollections,"  does 
complete  justice  to  a  great  woman  who  has  been  long 
misunderstood  —  Harriet  Martineau.  "To  call  Miss 
Martineau  a  deaf  and  disagreeable  atheist  is,  in  the 
opinion  of  many  persons,  to  treat  her  according  to 
her  deserts.  A  great  philosopher,  who  was.  evi 
dently,  not  amiable,  used  to  pretend  that  Miss  Mar 
tineau  could  always  hear  when  she  liked,  and  only 
used  her  trumpet  when  she  wanted  to  hear  ;  whereas, 
at  other  times,  she  laid  it  down  as  a  protection 
against  argument.  Nothing  could  be  more  untrue." 
Mr.  Payn  lays  stress  upon  the  domesticity  and 
tenderness  of  Miss  Martineau's  nature.  She  was 
always  anxious  to  do  good  to  one  of  her  friends. 
Mr.  Payn  says,  for  instance,  "  A  year  after  my  first 
introduction  to  her  I  came  to  Ambleside  a  married 
man,  and  my  first  child  was  born  there  in  the  winter. 
Her  kindness  to  myself  aud  my  wife  I  shall  never 
forget ;  I  went  in  and  out  of  the  knoll  as  I  pleased, 
like  a  cat  which  had  a  hole  cut  in  the  door  for  it, 
and  her  library  was  not  only  placed  entirely  at  my 
service  while  on  the  premises,  but  I  was  permitted 
to  take  home  with  me  whatever  books  I  wanted." 
When  the  child  was  born  —  she  was  named  after 
Miss  Martineau —  the  latter  wrote  to  Mr.  Payn  in 
this  lovable  spirit :  "I  send  to  the  back  door  (for 
quiet's  sake)  for  a  bulletin,  and  shall  continue  to  do 
so  instead  of  coming,  so  long  as  quiet  is  necessary. 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  49 

Oh  !  your  news  makes  me  so  happy.  Your  little 
Christmas  rose  !  I  am  glad  it  was  a  clear  bright  morn 
ing  when  it  began  to  blow.  How  happy  your  dear 
wife  must  be,  only  not  too  happy  to  sleep,  I  hope. 
Come  here,  you  know,  as  much  as  you  like,  and  make 
any  use  of  me  and  mine."  Miss  Martineau  appears, 
indeed,  as  a  sympathetic  and  noble  personality  in 
Mr.  Payn's  bright  pages. 

"  There  never  was  such  an  industrious  lady,"  said 
the  maid,  who  was  with  her  the  last  eleven  years  of 
her  life.  "  When  I  caught  sight  of  her,  just  once, 
leaning  back  in  her  chair,  with  her  arms  hanging 
down,  and  looking  as  though  she  wasn't  even  think 
ing,  it  gave  me  quite  a  turn.  I  felt  she  must  be  ill 
to  sit  like  that." 

Her  wise  brother  said  to  her,  "  Now,  dear,  leave 
it  to  other  women  to  make  shirts  and  darn  stockings, 
and  do  you  devote  yourself  to  writing."  She  said: 

"  I  am,  in  truth,  very  thankful  for  not  having 
married  at  all.  I  am,  probably,  the  happiest  sin 
gle  woman  in  England,  and  am  glad  my  fortune 
went. 

"  Many  and  many  a  time  since  have  I  said  that, 
but  for  that  loss  of  money,  I  might  have  lived  on  in 
the  ordinary  provincial  method,  of  ladies  with  small 
means,  sewing  and  economizing  and  growing  nar 
rower  every  year.  Whereas,  by  being  thrown  on 
my  own  resources,  I  have  worked  hard  and  usefully, 
have  friends,  reputation,  and  independence  ;  seen  the 


50  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

world  abundantly  abroad  and  at  home,  and,  in  short, 
have  truly  lived  instead  of  vegetated." 

We  must  not  forget  Matilda  Betham,  the  beloved 
friend  of  Coleridge,  Southey,  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb,  Mrs.  Barbauld,  and  many  other  persons  of 
that  time,  who,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  read  Thomas 
Paine's  works,  and  set  herself  to  refute  his  argu 
ments.  She,  like  so  many  of  our  spinster  authors, 
had  no  advantages  of  education  beyond  those 
afforded  by  her  father's  library  and  his  teaching. 
In  those  days,  women  lived  in  terror  of  being  thought 
learned,  but  her  friends  encouraged  her  aspirations, 
both  literary  and  artistic.  "  I  tell  you,"  said  one, 
"  for  the  thousandth  time,  that  you  are  full  of  genius  ; 
several  paths  to  fame  lie  open  to  you,  and  if  you 
don't  continue  to  march  through  one  of  them,  you 
deserve  to  have  your  mental  feet  cut  off." 

Her  portraits  were  charming,  but  there  were  no 
art  schools  for  women,  no  thorough  teaching.  Still 
her  pictures  were  exhibited  at  Somerset  House.  She 
wrote  poetry  for  the  magazines  and  prepared  a  Bio 
graphical  Dictionary  of  Celebrated  Women. 

Her  declining  years  were  spent  in  London.  At 
certain  literary  receptions,  the  oddly-dressed  old 
lady,  who  entered  the  room  leaning  on  a  cane,  her 
face  beaming  with  animation  and  intelligence,  was 
usually  surrounded  by  a  little  court.  "  I  would  rather 
talk  to  Matilda  Betham  than  to  the  most  beautiful 
young  woman  in  the  world,"  said  one  of  her  many 
admirers.  She  inherited  her  ready  wit  from  her 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  51 

father,  who  lived  to  be  ninety-six.  Almost  his  last 
words  were  a  witticism.  He  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  leaning  on  his  daughter's  arm  the 
day  before  he  died,  and  said  smiling,  "  I'm  walking 
slowly  but  I'm  going  fast." 

There  are  many  other  literary  spinsters  who  de 
serve  much  more  than  honorable  mention,  but  you 
know  we're  going  "  'cross  lots,"  and  must  not  tarry. 

As  the  beautiful  Mary  Berry  (1762-1852),  who 
shone  in  society  for  nearly  seventy  years,  whose 
memoirs  are  more  interesting  than  the  average 
novel,  the  special  friend  of  Horace  Walpole  and  his 
literary  executor,  besides  publishing  a  History  of 
England  and  France  and  a  life  of  Lady  Rachel  Rus 
sell. 

After  all  her  social  triumphs  and  universal  popu 
larity,  Miss  Berry  gave  her  verdict  in  favor  of  "  the 
dusty  highway  of  married  life  "  and  owned  her  lone 
liness. 

Caroline  Herschel,  the  distinguished  astronomer 
(1750-1848),  who  discovered  eight  comets,  and  gave 
to  the  world  a  general  index  of  reference  to  every 
observation  of  every  star  inserted  in  the  British  Cat 
alogue.  She  is  so  associated  with  her  brother  Wil 
liam  that  we  cannot  think  of  one  without  the  other. 
She  was  his  constant  helper  for  fifty  years.  Night 
after  night  she  shared  his  vigils,  wrote  down  his 
observations  as  he  made  them, .  and  when  he  was 
sleeping  in  the  morning  reduced  the  rough  jottings 
to  clearness  and  planned  the  labor  of  the  next  even- 


52  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

ing.  Reversing  the  usual  time  of  woman's  sweeping 
we  often  read,  "  Swept  the  heavens  from  nine  to  six." 

Here  are  some  of  the  points  she  wrote  down  to 
ask  her  brother  about  at  breakfast : 

"Given  the  true  time  of  the  transit  —  take  a 
transit." 

"  Time  of  a  star's  motion  to  be  turned  into  space." 

"  A  logarithm  given  to  find  the  angle." 

With  all  this  care  she  kept  the  house  with  mar 
velous  economy,  and  in  every  spare  moment,  when 
she  should  have  been  napping,  her  tireless  fingers 
were  knitting,  knitting  for  the  nephews  and  nieces 
in  Germany. 

And  such  lovely  modesty  !  She  only  "  minded 
the  heavens"  for  her  brother,  and  said  sincerely:  "  I 
am  nothing  ;  I  have  done  nothing.  All  I  am  I  know 
I  owe  to  my  brother.  I  am  only  a  tool  which  he 
shaped  to  his  use  ;  a  well-trained  puppy  dog  would 
have  done  as  much." 

Yet  she  was  an  original  thinker.  Scientific  men 
gladly  gave  her  that  praise.  How  often  it  happens 
that  great  men  and  great  causes  have  some  helper 
of  which  the  outside  world  knows  but  little. 

She  is  the  devoted  sister,  as  Miss  Mitford  was  the 
model  daughter.  She  might  have  been  successful  as 
a  public  singer ;  all  that  ambition  was  put  aside.  She 
lived  most  economically,  rarely  spending  more  than 
forty  dollars  a  year  on  herself. 

William  worked  night  and  day ;  she  fed  him  that 
he  might  lose  no  time. 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  53 

Her  ink  often  froze  as  she  was  working ;  if  it 
were  not  for  cloudy  nights  she  must  have  died  of 
overwork. 

"  In  her  latest  moments  her  only  thought  for  her 
self  was  embodied  in  a  request  that  a  lock  of  her 
beloved  brother's  hair  might  be  laid  with  her  in  her 
coffin." 

The  Astronomical  Society  of  London  rewarded 
her  work  with  a  gold  medal  in  1828.  She  lived  to 
be  almost  "  a  centurion,"  as  Mrs.  Partington  would 
say,  nearly  ninety-eight  years  old.  Side  by  side 
stand  the  brother  and  sister.  Without  her  unwavering 
love  and  steadfast  service  he  could  never  have, 
achieved  what  he  did.  Give  to  her  then,  at  least,  a 
third  of  Alison's  eloquent  tribute  : 

"  Herschel,  by  multiplying  with  incredible  labor 
and  skill  the  powers  of  the  telescope,  was  enabled  to 
look  further  into  space  than  man  had  ever  done  be 
fore,  discover  a  world  hitherto  unseen  in  the  firma 
ment,  and  in  the  Georgiurn  Sidas  add  '  a  new  string 
to  the  lyre  of  heaven.'  " 

This  story  suggests  another  devoted  brother  and 
sister,  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb.  Every  one  knows 
all  about  that  pathetic  oft-told  tale.  Mary  (1764- 
1847),  owes  her  literary  fame  to  her  "Tales  from 
Shakespeare,"  and  original  "  Poetry  for  Children." 

"  You  must  die  first,  Mary,"  he  said,  yet  she  sur 
vived  him  thirteen  years.  When  she  was  ill  and 
absent  Charles  wrote  :  "  I  am  like  a  fool,  bereft  of  her 
co-operation."  Again :  "  I  expect  Mary  will  get 


54  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

better  before  many  weeks  are  gone  ;  but  at  present  I 
feel  my  daily  and  hourly  prop  has  fallen  from  me. 
I  totter  and  stagger  with  weakness,  for  nobody  can 
supply  her  place  to  me." 

Read  this  sonnet  written  in  an  asylum  in  "  a  lucid 
interval." 

TO  MY  SISTER. 
"  If  from  my  lips  some  angry  accents  fell, 

Peevish  complaint,  or  harsh  reproof  unkind, 
'Twas  but  the  error  of  a  sickly  mind 

And  troubled  thoughts  clouding  the  purer  well 
And  waters  clear  of  reason  ;  and  for  me 
Let  this  my  verse  the  poor  atonement  be. 

My  verse  which  thou  to  praise  wert  e'er  inclined 
Too  highly,  and  with  a  partial  eye  to  see 
No  blemish.     Thou  to  me  didst  ever  show 

Kindest  affection  ;  and  wouldst  oft-times  lend 
An  ear  to  the  desponding  love-sick  lay, 
Weeping  my  sorrows  with  me,  who  repay 

But  ill  the  mighty  debt  of  love  I  owe, 

Mary,  to  thee,  my  sister,  and  my  friend." 

She  is  the  Bridget  of  his  Elia  Essays. 

Next  comes  Miss  Elizabeth  Smith,  the  feminine 
Mezzofanti  (1716-1806),  who  taught  herself  the  Latin, 
Greek,  Hebrew,  Syriac,  Arabic,  Persian,  Spanish,  and 
German  languages,  wrote  well  in  prose  and  verse, 
and  published  memoirs  of  Frederick  and  Margaret 
Klopstock. 

Helen  Maria  Williams  (1762-1827),  a  voluminous 
author,  at  first  a  warm  supporter  of  the  French 
Revolution,  imprisoned  at  Paris  on  that  account, 
later,  a  friend  of  the  Bourbon.  She  wrote  legend- 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  55 

ary  tales,  novels,  odes,  and  miscellaneous  poems, 
several  volumes  of  letters  of  travel,  various  transla 
tions,  but  will  be  remembered  by  that  well-known 
hymn  : 

"Whilst  Thee   I   seek,   Protecting   Power." 

At  the  last  she  was  a  hypochondriac,  often  sum 
moning  her  intimate  friends  to  her  death-bed  from 
from  which  she  rose  with  rapidity  and  frequency. 
One  wit,  after  being  present  on  several  such  trying 
occasions,  remarked  "he  could  not  afford  to  waste 
so  much  time  on  a  mortuary  uncertainty." 

The  learned  Mary  Astell  (1668-1731),  one  of  the 
first  to  advocate  the  higher  education  of  women,  and 
proposed  a  college  for  co-education.  She  was  a  writer 
of  considerable  note  in  her  day,  and  published  an 
"  Essay  in  Defense  of  the  Female  Sex,"  with  re 
flections  on  marriage,  caused  it  is  said  by  a  disap 
pointment  of  her  own.  Also  six  familiar  essays  on 
Marriage,  Crosses  in  Love,  and  Friendship.  In  these 
she  dwells  on  the  rights  and  privileges  of  women 
with  some  asperity.  As  she  grew  older  and  more  re 
signed  to  her  solitary  fate,  she  wrote  on  religious 
themes.  She  was  so  devoted  to  her  studies  that 
when  she  saw  visitors  coming  whom  she  knew  to  be 
incapable  of  any  improving  conversation,  she  would 
look  out  of  her  window  and  jestingly  tell  them,  as 
Cato  did  Nasica,  "  Miss  Astell  is  not  at  home,"  and  so 
kept  gossips  from  making  inroads  on  her  precious 
time  !  Miss  Philipps  is  remembered  by  a  book,  en- 


56  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

titled  "  My  Life,  and  what  shall  I  do  with  It.  By  an 
old  maid." 

A  magazine  by  this  name  was  commenced  in 
London  many  years  ago,  but  it  did  not  succeed. 

Agnes  Strickland  and  Lucy  Aiken  were  both  ex 
cellent  historians.  That  trio  of  sweet  singers,  Ade 
laide  Procter,  Jean  Ingelow,  and  Christina  Rosetti 
can  only  be  named.  And  that  other  remarkable  trio, 
the  Bronte  sisters,  for  Charlotte  won  her  fame  as 
a  spinster,  who  on  the  lonely  Yorkshire  heath,  in 
their  gloomy  home,  wrote  so  wonderfully  of  the 
outside  world  and  of  human  nature. 

Eliza  Cook  (1817-1889),  the  editor  of  the  popular 
journal  bearing  her  name,  has  seated  herself  com 
fortably  on  the  hill  of  fame  in  her  "  Old  Arm 
Chair." 

Miss  Mulock  and  Miss  Thackeray  slipped  quietly 
out  of  the  ranks,  both  married  happily  to  men  much 
younger  than  themselves.  Miss  Mulock  wrote  be 
fore  she  became  Mrs.  Craik  : 

"  My  worldly  name  the  world  speaks  loud, 

Thank  God  for  well-earned  fame; 
But  silence  sits  at  my  cold  hearth, 
I  have  no  household  name." 

Frances  Power  Cobbe,  a  woman  whose  influence 
is  felt  through  England  and  in  this  country,  an  inde 
pendent,  warm-hearted,  clear-headed  author  of  a 
score  of  valuable  books,  full  of  liberal,  earnest, 
original  thought.  She  deserves  a  special  chapter  as 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  57 

does  Jean  Ingelow  and  Frances  Ridley  Havergal. 
There  are  so  many  more  that  I  stop,  and  will  group 
these  latter-day  spinsters  in  a  separate  essay. 

The  longevity  of  unmarried  literary  women  is 
remarkable.  Average  age,  eighty-one. 

Reviewing  this  throng  renowned  for  their  at 
tractiveness  in  various  ways,  who  can  help  wonder 
ing  at  their  unmated  condition. ' 

"  Alas,  nor  chariot  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 
Their  all- accomplished  maids." 

For  them  how  happy  had  it  been  ! 

Literary  woman  are  accused  of  being  eccentric 
and  ugly,  but  the  majority  of  these  woman  were 
beautiful.  Some  hag  once  said  that  every  woman 
who  wrote  had  one  .eye  on  her  paper,  the  other  on 
some  man  ;  —  except  the  Baroness  Hahn  Hahn,  and 
she  had  lost  one  eye  ! 

Dorothy  Pattison,  "  Sister  Dora,"  the  heroic 
hospital  nurse,  said  she  believed  the  true  sphere  for 
woman  was  home,  after  all,  and  toward  the  end  of 
her  life,  remarked:  "If  I  had  to  begin  life  over 
again,  I  would  marry,  because  a  woman  ought  to  live 
with  a  man,  and  be  in  subjection." 

Dorothea  Dix  always  advised  young  girls  to 
marry  rather  than  seek  a  career.  The  irony  of  fate 
or  "  Sarcasm  of  Destiny"  or  the  Hand  of  Providence 
sometimes  directs  a  woman's  life  very  differently 


58  Spinster  Authors  of  England 

from  her  own  ideal.  She  may  be  lovable,  affection 
ate,  fond  of  home,  devoted  to  children,  yet  be  denied 
all. 

"  The  needs  God  gave  us  disallowed  ; 
Our  unkissed  faces  in  a  shroud  — 
Tis  this  to  be  a  woman." 

Derision  and  neglect  used  to  be  added  to  this 
discipline.  But  the  world  is  more  tolerant,  en 
lightened,  and  kindly,  and  the  old  maid  is  now  al 
lowed  to  do  what  she  can  to  make  others  happy,  and 
no  position  of  usefulness  or  distinction  is  closed  to  her 
if  she  has  the  power  to  fill  it.  Gail  Hamilton  says 
frankly  and  truly  that  every  woman  wrould  marry  if 
she  got  a  chance,  meaning  thereby  the  right  chance. 

Some  of  these  spinsters  who  have  been  so  brave 
and  cheerful,  and  accomplished  so  much,  have 
doubtless  felt  what  Mrs.  Browning  has  expressed  so 
perfectly  in  Aurora  Leigh  : 

"  My  father  !  thou  hast  knowledge,  only  Thou, 
How  dreary  'tis  for  woman  to  sit  still 
On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires, 
And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off, 
Too  far  !   Ay,  praising  our  quick  sense  of  love, 
Our  very  heart  of  passionate  womanhood, 
Which  could  not  beat  so  in  the  verse  without 
Being  present  also  in  the  unkissed  lips 
And  eyes,  undried,  because  there's  none  to  ask 
The  reason  they  grew  moist. 

To  have  our  books 

Appraised  by  love,  associated  with  love, 
While  we  sit  loveless.     Is  it  hard,  you  think  ? 
At  least  'tis  mournful. 

The  love  of  all 


Spinster  Authors  of  England  59 

Is  but  a.  small  thing  to  the  love  of  one. 

You  bid  a  hungry  child  be  satisfied 

With  a  heritage  of  many  corn-fields  ;  nay, 

He  says  he's  hungry  ;  he  would  rather  have 

That  little  barley  cake  you  keep  from  him 

While  reckoning  up  his  harvests.     So  with  us 

We're  hungry. 

But  since  we  needs  must  hunger, 

Better  for  man's  love 

Than  God's  truth  !     Better  for  companions  sweet 
Than  great  convictions.     Let  us  bear  our  weights, 
/Preferring  dreary  hearths  to  desert  souls." 

This  quotation  has  roused  severe  criticism.  One 
spinster,  whose  own  career  has  been  both  brilliant 
and  useful,  exclaims  :  "  It  is  too  bad !  You  depict 
these  woman  as  talented,  attractive,  admired,  lovely 
characters,  and  making  lots  of  money.  Then  all  is 
spoiled  by  this  doleful  picture  of  pining  and  sighing 
by  a  dreary  hearth." 

I  add,  in  deference  to  such  appeals,  that  if  some 
old  maids  are  lonely,  there  are  plenty  of  wives  who 
would  like  to  be  ! 

Josiah  Allen's  wife  has  similar  opinions  of  matri 
mony: 

"  Good  land  !  "  says  I.  "  Is  marryin'  the  only 
theme  anybody  can  lay  holt  of  ?  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  best  way  would  be  to  lay  holt  of  duty  now,  and 
then,  if  a  bo  comes,  lay  holt  of  him.  But  not  get 
married  ! 

"  Oh  dear  me,  suz ! "  screamed  Delila  Ann,  for 
truly  the  thoughts  seemed  to  scare  her  to  death. 
"  O  how  awful !  How  lonely,  lonely,  they  must  be !  " 


60  Spinster  Authors  of  England. 

"Who  said  they  wasn't?  "  says  I  in  pretty  middlin' 
short  tones,  for  she  was  a  beginnin'  to  wear  me  out 
some,  but  I  continued  on  in  more  mild  accents.  "  I 
have  seen  married  folks  before  now  that  I  knew  was 
in  their  souls  as  lonesome  as  dogs,  and  lonesomer  " 
says  I.  "A  disagreeabler  feeling  I  never  had  than 
to  have  company  that  haint  company  stay  right  by 
you  for  two  or  three  days.  And  then  what  must  it 
be  to  have  'em  stand  by  you  from  forty  to  fifty  years  ! 
Qood  land  !  it  would  tucker  anybody  out !  " 


I  am  weary  of  this  old  bachelor  life.  It  is  a  dog's  life  —  no, 
not  a  dog's  ;  that  is  a  reflection  on  canine  sagacity  ;  it  is  a  log's 
life,  if  life  that  may  be  called,  which  life  is  none. —  Pres.  Ray  mono, 
of  Vassar  College. 

What  do  you  know  by  any  possibility  about  women  ?  You, 
who  are  bachelor,  bachelorum?  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  until  you  marry, 
you  are  in  utter  darkness  and  desolation. —  Black. 


BACHELOR  AUTHORS  IN  TYPES 


THIS  is  a  hard  subject  to  manage,  as  bachelors 
usually  are. 

The  Spinsters  of  literature  placidly  took  the 
places  assigned  them,  their  pure,  unselfish  lives  ar 
ranged  themselves  easily  in  accordance  with  my 
plan,  shedding  a  perfume  of  self-abnegation  and 
charitable  deeds  over  the  page. 

But  bachelors  in  literature,  as  in  life,  are  fascinat 
ing,  evasive,  and  inscrutable. 

Then,  there  is  such  a  numerous  throng,  that,  like 
the  Fisher  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights,"  gazing  at  the 
Genii  he  had  released  from  the  bottle,  it  seems  al 
most  impossible  to  capture  and  confine  so  much  in 
so  small  compass. 

Any  one  of  these  distinguished  men  would  fur 
nish  abundant  material  for  a  volume,  their  combined 
works  the  reading  of  a  lifetime,  and  I  can  almost  see 


62  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

their  smiles  and  their  sneers,  at  the  idea  of  being- 
massed  together  in  this  daring,  irreverent  way  by  a 
woman  ! 

To  play  the  critic  to  these  mental  monarchs  in 
a  brief  review  would  be  an  impertinence. 

As  the  old  broker  remarked  :  "  What  we  want  is 
pints"  bits  of  heart  history,  pen  photographs,  and 
now  and  then  a  quotation  or  anecdote  that  reveals 
character. 

Still:  if  these  sketches  seem  odd,  unconnected, 
and  a  trifle  bald,  they  will  be  truer  to  the  theme. 
Without  going  back  to  the  days  of  Homer,  Virgil, 
Horace,  and  Juvenal,  or  dilating  on  the  literary 
achievements  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Clergy  (though 
sorry  to  omit  Father  Prout),  the  mind  recalls  an  il 
lustrious  company. 

Tasso,  Ariosto,  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  Congreve, 
Erasmus,  Scaliger,  Herrick,  Goldsmith,  Gray, 
Thomson,  Collins,  Cowley,  Marlowe,  Pope  (the  in 
terrogation  point  of  English  literature,  so  called  by 
an  author  he  had  quizzed  too  closely,  "  a  little 
crooked  thing  that  asks  questions"),  Pollock,  his 
friend  hoped  he  would  marry  in  "  the  course  of 
time."  Cowper,  Akenside  (his  were  pleasures  of 
the  imagination),  Hume,  Gibbon,  Macaulay,  Gay,  re 
membered  by  the  Beggars'  Opera  and  "  Black-Eyed 
Susan."  Rich  was  his  manager,  and  'twas  said  that 
"  this  opera  made  Rich  gay,  and  Gay  rich."  Prior, 
Shenstone,  and  Collins,  Rogers,  Crabbe  Robinson, 
that  great  talker  of  whom  Rogers  once  said  at  break- 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  63 

fast :  "  If  you  have  anything  to  say,  say  it  quickly, 
for  Crabbe  Robinson  is  coming."  Sir  Isaac  Newton 
and  another  Isaac,  the  good  Dr.  Watts,  who  made  the 
longest  visit  on  record,  a  forty-years  visit,  and  was 
so  delightful  a  guest  that  Lady  Abney  said  it  was 
the  shortest  visit  she  ever  had  ;  yet  no  lady  ever 
seemed  to  be  struck  with  "  Watts  and  Select  Hymn." 
Yet  he  had  his  romance.  Few  who  have  read  Dr. 
Watts'  hymn  beginning 

"How  vain  are  all  things  here  below," 

/ 

are  aware  that  it  was  composed  just  after  his  suit  had 
been  rejected  by  Miss  Singer,  afterwards  the  cele 
brated  Mrs.  Rowe.  The  lady  would  have  preferred 
the  Doctor,  but  he  was  so  slow  in  declaring  his 
passion,  that,  tired  of  waiting,  she  had  accepted  Mr. 
Rowe,  when  the  worthy  divine  at  last  made  known 
his  wishes. 

Cruden,  of  Concordance  fame,  charmed  with  Miss 
Abney's  wealth  and  virtues,  determined  to  marry 
her.  For  months  he  annoyed  her  with  calls,  letters, 
petitions,  memorials,  and  remonstrances;  when  she 
left  home,  he  caused  "praying-bills"  to  be  dis 
tributed  in  various  places  of  worship  requesting  the 
prayers  of  ministers  and  congregations  for  her 
preservation  and  safe  return,  and  afterwards  further 
bills  for  said  congregations  to  return  thanks.  Finding 
that  these  peculiar  attentions  did  not  produce  the  de 
sired  effect,  he  drew  up  a  long  paper  which  he  called 
a  "  Declaration  of  War,"  in  which  he  announced 


64  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

that  he  should  yet  compass  her  surrender  by  "  shoot 
ing  off  great  numbers  of  bullets  from  his  camp, 
namely,  by  earnest  prayer  to  Heaven  day  and  night, 
that  her  mind  might  be  enlightened  and  her  heart 
softened."  But  the  young  lady  never  relented,  and 
this  grotesque  courtship  ended  in  defeat. 

Herder,  Hobbes  (I  jot  down  the  names  as  they 
come  to  me),  Grimm,  the  German  Philologist,  to 
whom  the  children  are  indebted  for  those  wondrous 
stories,  known  as  "  Grimm's  Tales."  Frederick 
Grimm,  the  critic  and  diplomat;  Voltaire,  Alexander 
Humboldt,  Hans  Andersen,  Neander,  the  German 
theologian,  Jaffe,  the  Jewish  historian  of  Popery, 
Bishops  Butler,  Hammond,  and  Leighton,  Locke, 
Jeremy  Bentham,  Spinoza,  Kant,  Swedenborg,  the 
mystic ;  Dr.  Barrow,  who  gave  the  best  definition  of 
wit  yet  known. 

Beranger,  the  lovable  French  lyrist.  Rabelais, 
who,  like  Swift,  concealed  deep  meaning  and  grave 
rebuke  under  coarse  satire.  Boileau,  the  satirist, 
whom  Mad.  Sevinge  affirms  was  only  cruel  in  his 
writings.  He  may  be  called  the  French  Horace. 

St.  Beuve,  whom  Matthew  Arnold  considered  the 
finest  critical  spirit  of  our  time.  Burton,  the  author 
of  the  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,"  and  Matthew 
Green,  who  wrote  "  The  Spleen." 

George  Buchanan,  tutor  to  James  the  VI,  and 
James  Buchanan,  our  bachelor  president  and  some 
thing  of  an  author,  publishing  love  verses  in  the 
New  York  Herald.  His  romance  developed  into  a 
tragedy. 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  65 

Captain  John  Smith,  a  sworn  champion  of  the 
ladies,  all  of  whom  he  admired  too  ardently  to  be 
guilty  of  the  invidious  offense  of  marrying  any 
one  of  them.  Perhaps  the  last  professional  knight 
errant  that  the  world  ever  saw.  He  was  a  prolific 
author  and  his  "  True  Relation  of  Virginia  "  was  the 
first  book  in  American  literature. 

By  the  way,  what  an  interesting  book  could  be 
written  about  the  Smiths  who  have  distinguished 
themselves !  To  another  John  Smith  we  owe  the 
key  to  Pepy's  Diary. 

If  my  subject  included  musicians,  sculptors, 
artists,  what  a  famous  list  could  be  added,  as 
Raphael,  Michael  Angelo,*  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
dear  deaf  old  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Landseer,  who, 
as  some  one  well  said  "  discovered  the  dog,"  Handel, 
Beethoven,  Schubert,  Berloiz. 

Handel  was  a  hopeless  bachelor.  He  was  never 
in  love  and  had  an  aversion  to  marriage.  In  1707 
he  went  to  Liibeck  to  compete  for  the  place  of  suc 
cessor  to  the  famous  organist  Buxtehude  ;  but  when 
he  found  that  one  of  the  conditions  of  obtaining  the 
place  was  the  compulsory  privilege  of  marrying  the 
daughter  of  his  predecessor,  not  noted  for  her 
beauty,  he  fled  precipitately. 

Of  Beethoven  it  is  said  that  he  found  more 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  women  than  of  men.  He 
made  up  his  mind  repeatedly  to  get  married,  and 

*  When  Michael  Angelo  was  asked  why  he  did  not  marry,  he  replied, 
"  Painting  is  my  wife  and  my  works  are  my  children." 


66  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

proposed  more  than  once,  but  was  refused  in  each 
case.  One  of  these  women  confessed  that  she 
rejected  him  because  he  was  "so  ugly,  and  half- 
cracked." 

Beethoven  was  enamored  of  the  Countess  Guic- 
ciardi,  but  she  married  another.  He  was  often  very 
lonely  and  once  exclaimed,  "O  Providence,  vouch 
safe  me  one  day  of  pure  felicity !  " 

A  touching  romance  was  that  of  young  Schubert. 
He  was  the  teacher  of  Count  Esterhazy's  beautiful 
daughter  and  soon  adored  her,  but  the  passion  was 
not  returned.  "  You  have  dedicated  none  of  your 
works  to  me,"  she  said.  "  What's  the  use,"  he  sadly 
replied,  "you  already  have  all."  Later  he  wrote: 
"  Imagine  a  man  whose  health  will  never  come 
again,  whose  brilliant  hopes  have  come  to  naught  — 
to  whom  the  happiness  of  love  and  friendship  offers 
nothing  but  sorrow.  Every  night  when  I  go  to 
sleep,  I  hope  I  may  never  wake  again."  His  grave 
is  near  Beethoven. 

A  learned  physician,  whose  heart  is  as  large  as 
his  practice,  and  knowledge  of  human  nature  as  keen 
as  his  own  scalpel,  tells  me  it  would  not  be  possible 
to  classify  women.'-  You  could  not  find  two  alike, 
nor  predicate  with  certainty  what  any  one  of  that 
capricious  sex  would  do  under  given  circumstances  ; 
but  men,  as  regards  mental  peculiarities,  could  be 
more  easily  arranged  in  bundles  or  types. 

*As  Heine  puts  it:   "Do  you  say  that  woman  has  no  character? 
She  has  a  new  character  every  day." 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  67 

I  shall  therefore  try  to  simplify  matters,  by  classi 
fying  this  interesting  crowd  of  bachelor  authors, 
naming  a  few  representative  men. 

And  first,  the  Lady-killer,  with  Congreve,  the 
dramatist,  as  a  specimen. 

It  is  said  that  Congreve  had  too  much  wit  in  his 
comedies,  not  a  prevailing  fault  now-a-days,  and 
Dryden  pronounced  his  play,  "  The  Old  Bachelor," 
the  best  first  play  he  had  ever  seen.  Macaulay 
speaks  of  its  dialogue  as  resplendent  with  wit  and 
eloquence  in  such  abundance  that  the  fools  come  in 
for  an  ample  share.  He  was  attacked  and  nearly 
demolished  by  Jeremy  Collier  in  his  "  Short  View  of 
the  Stage."  The  poet  spoke  of  "  The  Old  Bachelor  " 
as  a  trifle  to  which  he  attached  no  value,  and  which 
had  become  public  by  a  sort  of  accident.  "  I  wrote 
it,"  he  said,  "to  amuse  myself  in  a  slow  recovery 
from  a  fit  of  sickness." 

"  What  his  disease  was,"  says  Collier,  "  I  am  not 
able  to  inquire,  but  it  must  be  a  very  ill  one  to  be 
worse  than  the  remedy." 

Congreve  was  handsome,  witty,  and  a  universal 
favorite.  Ladies  found  him  irresistible.  His  last 
admirer  was  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  daughter 
of  the  Dowager  Duchess  Sarah. 

Gouty  and  blind,  he  was  charming  to  the  last, 
and  after  his  death  her  grace  "  had  a  statue  of  him 
in  ivory,  which  moved  by  clockwork,  and  was  placed 
daily  at  her  table."  She  also  had  a  large  wax  doll 
made  in  his  likeness,  and  its  feet  were  regularly 


68  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

blistered  and  anointed  by  the  doctors  as  poor  Con- 
greve's  had  been. 

The  inscription  on  his  monument  in  Westminster 
Abbey  was  written  by  this  appreciative  friend,  to 
whom  he  bequeathed  his  small  fortune,  which  she 
wore  round  her  neck  in  superb  diamonds.  Thack 
eray  dwells  on  Congreve  in  his  Lectures  on  the 
Humorists. 

Swift  might  be  ranked  as  a  lady-killer  in  a 
serious  way,  but  bachelors  will  not  allow  him  in 
their  ranks. 

As  the  greatest  contrast,  think  of  Cowper  as  a 
sensitive  plant  closing  its  delicate,  shrinking  petals, 
affected  by  every  passing  cloud,  unable  to  endure 
contact  with  the  rough-handed  world. 

"O  poets,    from   a  maniac's   tongue   was   poured    the  deathless 

singing  ! 

O  Christians  !  at  your  cross  of  hope  a  hopeless  hand  was  clinging  ! 
O  men  !  this  man  in  brotherhood  your  weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace,  and  died  while  you  were 

smiling. 
And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read,  through  dimming  tears  his 

story  ; 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell  and  darkness  on  the  glory, 
And  how,  when  one  by  one  sweet  sounds  and  wandering  lights 

departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so  broken-hearted." 

Cowper,  at  twenty-eight,  became  deeply  attached 
to  his  cousin,  Theodora,  and  she  fully  returned  his 
affection  ;  was  perhaps  controlled  by  it  through  life, 
as  she  never  married.  But  her  father  refused  his 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  69 

consent  on  the  grounds  of  relationship  and  hered 
itary  insanity.     Cowper  writes  to  Lady  Hesketh  of 

"  Her  through  tedious  years  of  doubt  and  pain 
Fixed  in  her  choice,  and  faithful,  but  in  vain." 

Keats  belongs  to  this  class,  shy,  pure,  sensitive, 
too  delicately  organized  for  health  or  lasting  happi 
ness.  In  one  of  his  letters  he  hoped  that  after  his 
death  he  "  would  be  among  the  English  poets."  With 
one  or  two  exceptions,  no  poet  of  the  last  generation 
stands  higher  in  the  estimation  of  those  fitted  to 
judge. 

His  letters  to  that  disagreeable  young  woman, 
Fanny  Brawne,  must  be  mentioned.  Another  in 
stance  of  "  brawn  and  brain,"  where,  as  usual, 
Brawn  gets  the  better  of  brain.  His  quivering, 
bleeding  heart  is  laid  open  for  inspection,  a  painful 
sight. 

There  are  the  Embittered  Bachelors,  like  Pope, 
who  av,enge  their  deformity  and  unhappiness  or  in- 
validism  in  satire,  that,  when  applied  to  women,  has 
neither  delicacy  nor  genuine  wit.  Lady  Montague's 
mocking  laughter  after  his  professions  of  passion 
must  have  hurt  him.  I  can  hear  it  now. 

Those  governed  by  an  Early  Love  like  Irving. 
He  was  social,  charming,  enjoyed  the  society  of 
ladies,  was  ever  complimentary  and  courteous,  some 
times  indulging  in  sentiment,  yet  we  like  to  believe 
that  his  deepest  love  was  buried  in  the  grave  of  Ma 
tilda  Hoffman,  of  whom  he  said  :  "  She  died  in  the 


70  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

beauty  of  youth,  and  to  me  she  will  always  be  young 
and  beautiful." 

In  a  letter  to  Paulding,  Irving  writes:  "Your  pic 
ture  of  domestic  enjoyment  indeed  raises  my  envy. 
With  all  my  wandering  habits,  which  are  the  results 
of  circumstances  rather  than  of  disposition,  I  think 
I  was  formed  for  an  honest,  domestic,  uxorious  man, 
and  I  cannot  hear  of  my  old  cronies  snugly  nestled 
down  with  good  wives  and  fine  children  round  them, 
but  I  feel  for  the  moment  desolate  and  forlorn. 
Heavens !  what  a  haphazard,  schemeless  life  mine 
has  been  that  here  I  should  be  at  this  time  of  life, 
youth  slipping  away,  and  scribbling  month  after 
month  and  year  after  year,  far  from  home,  without 
any  means  or  prospect  of  entering  into  matrimony, 
which  I  absolutely  believe  indispensable  to  the 
happiness  and  even  comfort  of  the  after  part  of 
existence." 

It  was  by  the  death-bed  of  his  love  that  the  well- 
beloved  Dr.  Muhlenberg  wrote :  "I  would  not  live 
alway,"  and  his  devotion  to  her  memory  was  unwaver 
ing  to  the  end. 

Gilbert  White,  the  lovable,  retiring  old  bachelor 
who  gave  us  that  delightful  book,  "  The  Natural 
History  of  Selbourne,"  making  his  name  famous  by 
an  intelligent,  enthusiastic,  exact  study  of  the  birds 
and  animals  around  his  own  home,  belongs  to  this 
class.  I  think  Miss  Hetty  Mulso  made  a  mistake  in 
refusing  such  a  lover. 

In  Mary  Howitt's  translation  of  the  autobiog 
raphy  of  Hans  Andersen,  we  find  that  he  had  his 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  71 

trials,  but  nothing  could  spoil  the  sunshiny,  child 
like  nature  of  this  best  of  story-tellers  —  a  man  of 
crystal  innocence  and  amusing  conceit.  He  gives 
the  romance  in  his  own  ingenuous  way. 

"  Sentiment,  which  I  had  so  often  derided,  would 
now  be  avenged.  I  arrived  in  the  course  of  my 
journey  at  the  hojttse  of  a  rich  family,  in  a  small  city, 
and  here,  suddenly  a  new  world  opened  before  me, 
an  immense  world,  which  yet  could  be  contained  in 
four  lines,  which  I  wrote  at  that  time  : 

'  A  pair  of  dark  eyes  fixed  my  sight, 
They  were  my  world,  my  home,  and  my  delight. 
The  soul  beamed  in  them,  and  childlike  peace, 
And  never  on  earth  will  their  memory  cease.' 

New  plans  of  life  occupied  me.  I  would  give  up 
writing  poetry,  to  what  would  it  lead  ?  I  would 
study  theology  and  become  a  preacher.  I  had  only 
one  thought  and  that  was  she.  But  it  was  self- 
delusion.  She  loved  another ;  she  married  him.  It 
was  not  till  several  years  later  that  I  felt  and  acknowl 
edged  that  it  was  best  both  for  her  and  myself  that 
things  had  fallen  out  as  they  were.  She  had  no  idea, 
perhaps,  how  deep  my  feeling  for  her  had  been,  or 
what  an  influence  it  produced  in  me.  She  had  be 
come  the  excellent  wife  of  a  good  man,  and  a  happy 
mother.  God's  blessing  rest  on  her." 

It  was  in  the  company  of  Thorwaldsen,  the  sculp 
tor  (a  bachelor,  also)  that  Andersen  wrote  several  of 
his  stories.  He  says,  that  often  in  the  twilight,  when 
the  family  circle  sat  in  the  open  garden  parlor, 


72  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

Thorwaldsen  would  come  softly  behind  me,  and, 
clapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  would  ask,  "  Shall  we 
little  ones  have  any  tales  to-night?  "  Often  during 
his  most  glorious  works  would  he  stand  with  laugh 
ing  countenance  and  listen  to  the  story  of  "  The  Top 
and  Ball,"  "  The  Ugly  Duckling."  It  is  sad  to  think 
that  one  who  had  made  Christmas  merry  for  so 
many  little  folks  should  ever  be  solitary  on  that  day. 
He  tells  the  story  in  his  artless,  touching  way  :  "  And 
yet,  amid  these  social  festivities,  with  all  the  amiable 
zeal  and  interest  that  there  was  felt  for  me,  I  had  one 
disengaged  evening,  one  evening  on  which  I  felt 
solitude  in  its  most  oppressive  form —  Christmas  eve, 
that  very  evening  of  all  others,  in  which  I  would 
most  willingly  witness  something  festal,  willingly 
stand  beside  a  Christmas  tree,  gladdening  myself 
with  the  joy  of  children,  and  seeing  the  parents  joy 
fully  become  children  again.  Every  one  of  the 
many  families  in  which  I,  in  truth,  felt  that  I  was 
received  as  a  relation,  had  fancied,  as  I  afterwards 
discovered,  that  I  must  be  invited  out,  but  I  sat  quite 
alone  in  my  room  at  the  inn,  and  thought  on  home. 
I  seated  myself  at  the  open  window  and  gazed  up  to 
the  starry  heavens  which  was  the  Christmas  tree 
lighted  up  for  me.  '  Father  in  Heaven,'  I  prayed  as 
the  children  do,  '  what  dost  Thou  give  to  me  ? ' '  It 
was  he  who  said,  "  Every  man's  life  is  a  fairy  tale, 
written  by  God's  finger."  His  own  fairy  tales  have 
been  read  with  delight  in  every  modern  language, 
Do  you  recall  his  epitaph  ? 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  73 

"  Thou  art  not  dead  though  thine  eyes  are  closed  ; 
In  children's  hearts  thou  shalt  live  forever." 

Hans  Andersen  is  the  only  literary  bachelor  I 
remember  who  received  and  refused  an  offer  of  mar 
riage.  You  can  imagine  his  surprise  on  being  told 
by  a  young  and  handsome  girl,  who  had  traveled  far 
to  meet  him,  that  she  wished  to  marry  him.  "  I 
should  be  so  very  good  to  you,"  said  the  admiring, 
simple-hearted  maiden,  "  and  always  take  good  care 
of  you."  "  But,  my  dear  girl,  I  don't  wish  to  be  mar 
ried,"  answered  the  charming  old  man,  and  she  de 
parted  as  suddenly  as  she  came. 

Turner,  the  artist,  had  his  life  shaped  and  shad 
owed  by  an  early  diappointment.  "  A  boyish  fancy 
ripened  into  love,  but  his  idol  was  influenced  to 
marry  in  his  absence,  and  the  treachery  wrought 
incalculable  harm  on  his  sensitive  nature.  He  grad 
ually  changed  into  a  self-concentrated,  reserved 
money-maker."  The  very  peculiar  appearance  of 
his  "  Slave  Ship  "  may  be  due  to  this  misfortune. 
Emotional  insanity  on  canvas.  I  have  always  liked 
the  story  of  the  farmer's  wife  whose  city  cousin  took 
her  to  see  a  collection  of  paintings  in  London.  She 
looked  at  Turner's  "  The  Day  after  the  Deluge  "  and 
•read  the  title.  "Well,  I  should  think  it  was!  "  she 
said,  and  passed  on.  Something  serious  also  seems 
to  affect  his  literary  work. 

Turner  is  not  generally  known  as  an  author,  yet 
he  has  written  a  good  deal,  so  faulty  in  spelling, 


74  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

grammar,  and  construction,  that  it  would  serve  as  an 
exercise  for  little  boys  at  school  to  correct. 

Hamerton  says  he  never  did  anything  worse  than 
his  poetry,  except  his  prose.  You  shall  judge  of 
their  respective  merits  from  brief  extracts. 

"  Where  the  soft  river,  flowing,  gives  renown, 
'Mid  steep  worn  hills,  and  to  the  low  sunk  town  ; 
Whose  trade  has  flourished  from  early  time 
Remarkable  for  thread  called  Bridport  twine." 

Now  for  the  prose  : 

"  They  wrong  virtue,  enduring  difficulties  or  worth, 
in  the  bare  imitation  of  nature,  all  offers  received  in 
the  same  brain,  but  where  these  attempts  arise  above 
mediocrity,  it  would  surely  not  be  a  little  sacrifice  to 
those  who  perceive  the  value  of  the  success,  to  foster 
it  by  terms  so  cordial  that  cannot  look  so  easy  a  way 
as  those  spoken  of  convey  doubts  to  the  expecting 
individual.  For  as  the  line  that  unites  the  beautiful 
to  grace  and  these  offering  forming  a  new  style  not 
that  soul  can  guess  as  ethics.  Teach  them  of  both, 
but  many  serve  as  the  body  the  soul,  but  presume 
more  as  the  beacon  to  the  headland  which  would  be 
a  warning  to  the  danger  of  mannerism  and  the  dis 
gustful." 

(I  trust  this  is  clear  to  you  !) 

Adam  Smith,  the  distinguished  writer  on  Political 
Economy,  was  never  married.  Dugald  Stewart  gives 
this  interesting  bit  of  history  : 

"  In  the  early  part  of  Mr.  Smith's  life,  it  is  well 
known  to  his  friends  that  he  was  for  several  vears 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  75 

attached  to  a  young  lady  of  great  beauty  and  accom 
plishment.  What  prevented  their  union  I  am  not 
able  to  learn,  but  I  believe  it  is  pretty  certain  that 
after  this  disappointment,  he  laid  aside  all  thoughts 
of  marriage.  The  lady  also  died  unmarried.  At 
eighty  she  still  retained  evident  traces  of  her  former 
beauty.  The  powers  of  her  understanding  and  the 
gaiety  of  her  temper  seemed  to  have  suffered  noth 
ing  from  the  hands  of  Time." 

The  Hermit,  as  Thoreau  —  "  The  Bachelor  of 
Thought  and  Nature."  Thoreau  was  a  recluse,  a  gen 
uine  apostle  of  solitude,  standing  aloof  from  other 
men  and  scorning  them. 

"  They  do  a  little  business  each  day  to  pay  their 
board ;  then  they  congregate  in  sitting  rooms  and 
feebly  fabulate  and  paddle  in  the  social  slush. 

"  The  whole  enterprise  of  this  nation  is  totally  de 
void  of  interest  to  me.  Would  I  not  rather  be,a  cedar 
post  than  the  farmer  that  sets  it,  or  he  that  preaches 
to  that  farmer  ? 

"  I  could  do  easily  without  the  post-ofnce  ;  never 
read  any  memorable  news  in  a  newspaper.  Nothing 
at  the  North  Pole  that  I  could  not  find  at  Concord. 

"  What  a  foul  subject  is  this  of  doing  good  instead 
of  minding  one's  own  life,  which  should  be  his  '  busi 
ness.' 

"  The  youth  gets  together  the  materials  to  build  a 
bridge  to  the  moon,  or  a  temple  on  the  earth,  and 
the  middle-aged  man  concludes  to  build  a  wood-shed 
with  them." 


76  Bachelor  Authors  in  Tvpes 

On  picking  up  a  button  from  the  coat  of  the 
drowned  Marquis  of  Ossoli  on  the  seashore,  Thoreau 
reached  the  acme  of  self-aggrandizement.  "  Held 
up,  it  intercepts  the  light,  an  actual  button,  and  yet 
all  the  life  it  is  connected  with  is  less  substantial  to 
me  and  interests  me  less  than  my  faintest  dream." 

He  also  said  :  "  The  stars  and  I  belong  to  a  mutual 
admiration  society.  I  would  put  forth  sublime 
thoughts  daily. 

"  I  love  my  friends  very  much,  but  I  find  that  it  is 
of  no  use  to  go  to  see  them. 

"  I  hate  them  commonly  when  I  am  near  them  ; 
they  belie  themselves  and  deny  me  continually. 
vSilence  alone  is  worthy  to  be  heard." 

"  '  I  love  Henry,'  said  a  friend,  '  but  I  cannot  like 
him,  and  as  for  taking  his  arm,  I  should  as  soon  think 
of  taking  the  arm  of  an  elm  tree."  Still  Thoreau  had  a 
love  affair,  and  the  heroine  is  now  a  grandmother. 
He  and  his  brother  John  made  love  to  the  same 
nymph,  and  she  went  and  married  a  parson. 

To  the  average  observer,  a  hut  by  a  pond,  and 
intimacies  with  mice  and  woodchucks,  are  even  less 
desirable  than  "  social  slush."  After  all  his  outdoor 
excursions  and  a  life  in  fresh  air,  Thoreau  died  of 
consumption  like  any  common  mortal  who  had  been 
of  more  use  to  mankind. 

Do  not  say  that  I  fail  to  appreciate  the  peculiar 
charm  of  this  student  of  nature.  "  No  one  ever  came 
nearer  to  the  great  heart  of  nature."  What  are 
guesses  with  others  are  a  revelation  to  him.  But  he 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  77 

affected  to  despise  humanity,  always  a  mistake.  Men 
and  women  as  a  rule  are  more  interesting  than  chip 
munks.  All  this  was  caused  by  his  intense  sympa 
thy  with  nature. 

"  It  appears  to  me/'  said  this  fascinating  dreamer, 
"  that  to  one  standing  on  the  heights  of  philosophy 
mankind  and  the  works  of  man  will  have  sunk  out  of 
sight  altogether  ;  that  man  is  altogether  too  much 
insisted  on.  Man  is  too  much  with  us.  It  is  our 
weakness  that  so  exaggerates  the  virtue  of  philan 
thropy  and  charity,  and  makes  it  the  highest  human 
attribute.  The  world  will  sooner  or  later  tire  of  phi 
lanthropy  and  all  religion  based  on  it  mainly.  In 
order  to  avoid  delusions,  I  would  fain  let  man  go  by, 
and  behold  a  universe  in  which  man  is  but  a  grain 
of  sand." 

He  may  have  inherited  his  self-consciousness  from 
his  mother,  who  wrhen  heard  it  she  remarked  that 
Thoreau's  style  resembled  Emerson's,  replied 
placidly:  "Yes,  Mr.  Emerson  does  write  like  my 
son."  Lowell,  who  does  not  believe  in  Thoreau's 
originality,  nor  his  arrogant  omniscience  about 
nature,  says  :  "  He  turns  commonplaces  end  for  end, 
and  fancies  it  makes  something  new  of  them.  He 
discovered  nothing,  but  thought  everything  a  dis 
covery  of  his  own,  from  moonlight  to  the  planting  of 
acorns  and  nuts  by  squirrels." 

The  Self-denying  bachelor,  like  Lamb,  who  gave 
up  marriage  for  the  sake  of  his  sister.  I  am  proud 
to  say  there  are  many  equally  noble  in  our  day. 


78  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

Lamb  said  of  celibacy:  "There  is  a  quiet  dignity  in 
old  bachelorhood,  a  leisure  from  cares,  noise,  and  so 
on  ;  an  enthronization  upon  the  armed  chair  of  a 
man's  feeling,  that  he  may  sit,  walk,  read  unmo 
lested  ;  to  none  accountable."  Writing  to  Procter  on 
his  marriage,  Lamb  said  :  "  I  am  married  myself  to 
a  severe  step-wife,  who  keeps  me,  not  at  bed  and 
board,  but  at  desk  and  board,  and  is  jealous  of  my 
morning  aberrations.  I  cannot  slip  out  to  congratu 
late  kinder  unions.  It  is  well  she  leaves  me  alone 
o'  nights  ;  the  d d  Day-hag  Business." 

The  Old-Maidish  bachelor,  like  Gray,  who  always 
had  his  room  in  the  most  exact  order,  and  a  fire- 
escape  at  the  window,  who  labored  eight  years  on  a 
single  poem,  and  made  it  perfect.  "  No  man  ever 
went  down  to  immortality  with  a  smaller  book  under 
his  arm." 

Erasmus  was  fanciful,  and  often  old-maidish  in 
his  tastes.  He  must  have  a  certain  kind  of  fire 
place,  and  a  particular  brand  of  wine.  He  almost 
fainted  at  the  sight  of  fish,  declaring  that  while  his 
"heart  was  Catholic,  his  stomach  was  Lutheran." 

The  late  Francois  Mignet,  the  French  historian, 
was  a  confirmed  old  bachelor.  A  private  passage  was 
opened  for  him  from  his  fourth-story  lodgings  into  the 
house  of  Mr.  Thiers,  with  whom  he  was  on  very  in 
timate  terms.  He  retired  at  ten,  rose  at  five,  did  his 
own  cooking,  allowed  no  one  to  touch  his  papers, 
and  in  winter  sat  and  wrote  with  a  rug  around  his 
legs  and  feet,  rather  than  have  the  trouble  of  tend 
ing  the  fire. 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  79 

Walt  Whitman  stands  by  himself,  "  the  good,  gray 
poet  "  he  is  called  by  his  admirers.  I  am  not  one  of 
them.  I  do  not  find  fault  with  his  extraordinary 
ideas  of  "  true  art,"  refusing  to  expurgate  his  Leaves 
of  Grass,  although  I  cannot  understand  why  we 
should  excuse,  tolerate,  or  admire  in  a  book  what 
would  be  tabooed  as  blasphemous  or  obscene  in 
pictures  or  conversation.  Why  do  women  write  of 
the  rollicking  vulgarity  of  Chaucer's  tales  as  "  de 
licious  naivete"  and  lady  teachers  advise  the  young 
girls  under  their  guidance  to  read  his  description  of 
intrigue,  and  hot,  lawless,  unbridled  passion.  It  is 
not  only  unwise,  but  positively  dangerous  and 
wicked.  Why  not  tell  the  truth  about  old  Dan 
Chaucer?  He  spoils  his  own  feast  with  needless 
filth.  So  does  Rabelais.  Gross  indelicacy  is  not  wit. 
Swift  enjoyed  revolting  subjects  that  give  a  decent 
person  a  mental  nausea.  Many  who  have  erred  in 
this  direction  have  realized  the  harm,  and  repented 
before  death.  But  Walt  Whitman  sees  nothing  that 
is  in  the  least  objectionable  in  any  of  his  poems. 
Let  him  represent  the  Egotist. 

"  Divine  am  I  inside  and  out  and  I  make  holy  whatever  I  touch  or 
am  touched  from. 

The  scent  of  these  arm-pits  aroma  finer  than  prayer." 

or 

"  I  do  not  snivel  that  snivel  the  world  over." 

"  I  find  no  sweeter  fat  than  sticks  to  my  own  bones." 

"  I  dote  on  myself." 

"  I  am  an  acme  of  things  accomplished." 

"  My  feet  strike  an  apex  of  the  apices  of  the  stairs." 


80  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

"  My  lovers  suffocate  me, 

Bussing  my  body  with  soft  balsamic  busses." 

"  Let  me  have  my  own  way; 
After  me  vista  !  " 

"  I  bestow  upon  any  man  or  woman  the  entrance  to  all  the 
gifts  of  the  universe." 

"Who  thinks  the  amplest  thoughts?  for  I  would  surround 
those  thoughts." 

"  Who  has  gone  farthest?  for  I  would  go  further." 

"  To  be  conscious  of  my  body,  so  satisfied,  so  large  !" 

"  To  be  this  incredible  God  I  am." 

His  stringing  together  of  nouns  has  been  parodied 
so  often  and  so  well,  that  I  will  only  give  three  of 
his  own  lines  to  prove  that  nothing  can  be  more 
ridiculous  : 

"  Flail,  plough,  pick,  crowbar,  spade, 
Shingle,  rail,  prop,  wainscot,  jamb,  lath,  panel,  gable. 
Citadel,    ceiling,   saloon,   academy,    organ,   exhibition, 
house,  library." 

Yet,  once  in  a  while  you  stumble  on  a  striking 
and  good  sentence,  as,  "  How  beggarly  appear  argu 
ments  before  a  defiant  deed !  "  "I  think  heroic  deeds 
were  all  conceived  in  the  open  air."  His  warble  for 
Lilac-time  I  cheerfully  acknowledge  is  exquisite,  full 
of  the  very  soul  of  spring.  His  love  of  nature  is  the 
redeeming  quality.  His  Army  Lyrics  also  have  the 
true  martial  ring,  and  a  deal  of  tenderness  and 
pathos. 

And  the  Happy-go-lucky  type,  the  blundering 
darling,  whom  every  woman  likes,  but  no  woman 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  81 

wants  to  marry;  as  poor  "  Goldy."  He  loved  the 
beautiful  Miss  Horneck,  the  beautiful  "Jessamy 
Bride,"  who  was  beautiful  at  seventy.  After  his 
coffin  had  been  closed,  a  lock  of  hair  was  requested 
for  a  lady  who  wished  to  preserve  it  as  a  memento. 
She  laughed  at  her  awkward  admirer  while  he  lived, 
but  his  regard  for  her  "  has  hung  a  poetical  wreath 
her  grave." 

Says  Irving:  "Had  it  been  his  fate  to  meet  a 
woman  who  could  have  loved  him  despite  his  faults 
and  respected  him  despite  his  foibles,  we  cannot  but 
think  that  his  life  and  genius  would  have  been  made 
more  harmonious,  his  desultory  affections  would 
have  been  concentrated,  his  craving  self-love  ap 
peased,  his  pursuits  more  settled,  his  character  more 
solid.  A  nature  like  Goldsmith's,  so  affectionate,  so 
confiding,  so  susceptible  to  simple,  innocent  enjoy 
ments,  so  dependent  on  others  for  the  sunshine  of 
existence,  does  not  flower  if  deprived  of  the  atmos 
phere  of  home." 

Next,  for  contrast,  a  large  family  of  CLAMS,  cold, 
encased  in  a  hard  shell.  Hume  takes  the  lead  as  a 
bivalve ;  apathetic  and  frigid.  In  his  essays,  he  fre 
quently  discusses  the  passion  of  love,  dividing  it  into 
its  elements  as  systematically  as  if  he  had  subjected 
it  to  a  chemical  analysis,  and  laying  down  rules  re 
garding  it  as  distinctly  and  specifically  as  if  it  were 
a  system  of  logic.  Hume's  elder  brother  John  was 
married  in  1751,  and  the  following  letter  full  of 
light  and  elegant  raillery  refers  to  that  event : 


82  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

DEAR  MADAM  : 

Our  friend  has  at  last  plucked  up  a  resolution  and  has  ventured 
on  that  dangerous  encounter.  He  went  off  on  Monday  morning, 
and  this  is  the  first  action  of  his  life  wherein  he  has  engaged  him 
self  without  being  able  to  compute  exactly  the  consequences.  But 
what  arithmetic  will  serve  to  fix  the  proportion  between  good  and 
bad  wives,  and  rate  the  different  classes  of  each.  Sir  Isaac  New 
ton  himself,  who  could  measure  the  course  of  the  planets,  and 
weigh  the  earth  as  in  a  pair  of  scales,  even  he  had  not  algebra 
enough  to  reduce  that  amiable  part  of  our  species  to  a  just  equa 
tion,  and  they  are  the  only  heavenly  bodies  whose  orbits  are  as 
yet  uncertain. 

It  is  recorded  of  Hume  that  he  once  made  an 
offer  of  marriage  to  a  lady  who  refused  him,  but 
whose  friends  afterwards  told  him  that  she  had 
changed  her  mind.  "  So  have  I,"  replied  the  his 
torian.  At  times  he  seems  to  be  depressed  by  his 
self-imposed  solitude,  and  spoke  of  himself  as  left 
utterly  abandoned  and  desolate.  "  Fain  would  I  run 
into  the  crowd  for  shelter  and  warmth,  but  cannot 
prevail  with  myself  to  mix  with  such  deformity.  I 
call  upon  others  to  join  me  in  order  to  make  a  com 
pany  apart,  but  no  one  will  hearken  to  me.  Every 
one  keeps  at  a  distance,  and  dreads  that  storm  which 
beats  upon  me  from  every  side." 

The  Corpulent  Bachelor  Authors  make  a  long  list. 
Hume  was  one  of  the  fattest  of  fat  bachelors,  and 
often  alludes  to  it.  In  a  letter  he  says,  "  Pray  tell 
his  solicitorship  (Alexander  Home)  that  I  have  been 
reading  in  an  old  author  called  Strabo,  that  in  some 
cities  of  ancient  Gaul  there  was  a  fixed  legal  stand 
ard  established  for  corpulency,  that  the  senate  kept 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  83 

a  measure,  beyond  which  if  any  form  presumed  to 
increase,  the  proprietor  was  obliged  to  pay  a  fine 
proportionable  to  its  rotundity.  Ill  would  it  fare 
with  us  if  such  a  law  should  pass  our  parliament." 
Unappreciated  in  his  own  country,  he  was  the  rage 
in  Paris.  The  incense  of  praise  was  enough  to  intox 
icate  even  his  cool  head.  But  he  could  not  shine  in 
the^society  of  ladies.  In  their  salons  he  was  an  ex 
quisitely  comical  failure.  Mad.  D.  Epinay  gives  a 
vivid  scene.  He  is  seated  between  the  two  prettiest 
women  in  Paris,  but  could  only  look  admiringly,  then 
blankly,  from  one  to  the  other,  absolutely  unable  to 
think  of  a  word  to  say.  His  French,  indeed,  was 
some  excuse.  "  The  French,"  said  Walpole  with  his 
customary  cynicism,  "  believe  in  Mr.  Hume,  the  only 
thing  in  the  world  that  they  believe  implicitly,  for  I 
defy  them  to  understand  any  language  which  he 
speaks.""5*  But  Gibbon's  corpulency  placed  him  in 
an  even  more  embarrassing  position. 

It  is  generally  imagined  that  Gibbon  was  faith 
ful  to  his  early  and  romantic  love  for  Susan  Curchod, 
afterwards  Madam  Necker,  and  the  mother  of  Mad. 
de  Stael.  To  be  sure  he  never  married,  but  one  crit 
ic's  enthusiasm  over  his  fidelity  to  this  disappointed 
passion  is  a  trifle  excessive.  He  comments  in  this 
way  on  some  extracts  from  his  journal  during  the 
time  of  his  courtship :  "  What  raptures  these  sim 
ple  memoranda  hint,  and  how  dreary  a  void  in  his 
life  is  suggested  by  the  historian's  future  recurrences 

*He  made  a  similar  criticism  on  Dante,  saying,  "  His  reputation  will 
go  on  increasing,  because  scarcely  anybody  reads  him." 


84  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

to  the  sole  passion  of  his  life.  He  never  loved  nor 
thought  of  loving  any  other  woman  ;  his  hurt  was 
not  bravely  received,  but,  apparently,  it  was  incura 
ble."  When  attributing  to  the  man  who  grew,  year 
by  year,  more  famous  and  more  enormously  fat,  in 
the  society  of  Madam  Necker,  such  constancy,  this 
writer  should  have  mentioned,  if  only  to  refute  it,  a 
malicious  story  told  concerning  an  occasion,  when 
Gibbon,  lured  by  the  charms  of  a  beautiful  woman, 
not  only  forgot  his  loyalty  to  what  is  described  as 
the  sole  love  of  his  life,  but,  what  was  a  matter  of 
more  importance  to  him,  forgot  that  his  fat  had  kept 
pace  with  his  fame.  It  is  averred  that  Gibbon, 
charmed  with  the  beautiful  Lady  Elizabeth  Foster, 
invited  the  fair  one  to  breakfast  in  a  bower  fragrant 
with  circling  acacias,  and  read  to  her  several  pass 
ages  from  his  "  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of 
the  Roman  Empire,"  just  completed.  Enchanted 
with  the  masterly  narrative,  her  ladyship,  wholly 
unsuspicious  of  all  amorous  pretensions  from  a  man 
of  his  mature  years,  ungainly  figure,  and  love-repel 
ling  countenance,  complimented  him  with  a  charm  of 
language  and  warmth  of  address  which  he  instantly 
converted  in  effusions  of  tender  inspiration.  Falling 
on  his  knees,  he  gave  utterance  to  an  impassioned 
profession  of  love,  greatly  to  the  surprise  of  its  ob 
ject,  who,  recoiling,  entreated  him  to  rise  at  once 
from  this  humiliating  posture.  Thus  recalled  to 
cooler  feeling,  but  prostrate  and  helpless  from  his 
unwieldly  form,  he  vainly  sought  to  regain  his  feet, 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  85 

and  the  lady,  whose  first  astonishment  soon  yielded 
to  irrepressible  laughter,  was  equally  powerless  in 
affording  relief,  until,  at  length,  with  the  aid  of  two 
strong  women,  he  was  reseated  in  his  arm-chair,  from 
which  it  was  supposed  he  had  accidentally  slipped. 
But  this  reversal  of  his  "  Decline  and  Fall  "  (I  refer  to 
his  fall  and  her  decline)  did  not  interrupt  their  friend- 
ship^-which  shows  him  in  a  much  more  amiable  light 
than  Pope  with  Lady  Montague. 

This  absurd  tableau  has  also  been  laughed  over  in 
France  with  Mad.  de  Cronza  as  the  heroine. 

Thomson,  the  poet  of  the  Natural  School,  after 
the  brilliant  finish  of  Pope's  studied  couplets  was 
also  noticeably  corpulent.  "  More  fat  than  bard  he 
seems."  Famous  for  his  lays  and  his  laziness,  bit 
ing  mouthfuls  from  the  luscious  peaches  hanging  on 
the  garden  wall,  too  lazy  to  take  his  hands  out  of  his 
pockets  to  pick  them.  He  loved  to  lie  in  bed.  He 
refused  entirely  to  get  up  one  morning  in  1748,  and 
after  a  proper  period  had  elapsed  they  buried  him. 
He  had  at  least  one  romance,  an  unfortunate  affair, 
being  deeply  interested  in  a  Miss  Amanda  Some 
body,  whose  mother  did  not  want  a  poor  poet  for  a 
son-in-law. 

He  exclaimed : 

"  For  once,  O  Fortune,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  I  absolve  thy  future  care  ; 
All  other  blessings  I  resign , 
Make  but  the  dear  Amanda  mine." 

Poor  Jemmy !  He  sung  of  the  seasons  but  had 
no  summer  of  his  own. 


86  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

"  "Pis  mine,  alas  !  to  mourn  my  wretched  fate, 

I  love  a  maid  who  all  my  bosom  charms, 
Yet  lose  my  days,  without  this  lovely  mate, 
Inhuman  fortune*  keeps  her  from  my  arms." 

And  next  "  The  Cadaverous  Skeleton,"  as  Rogers, 
extremely  sensitive  about  his  appearance,  but  his 
friends  were  unmerciful.  Byron  wrote  a  scathing 
lampoon,  ending : 

1 '  Is't  a  corpse  stuck  up  for  show  ? 
Galvanized  at  times  to  go  ! 
Vampire,  ghost,  or  ghoul,  what  is  it? 
I  would  walk  ten  miles  to  miss  it  !  " 

Sydney  Smith  named  him  "  The  Death  Dandy," 
and  wicked  Theodore  Hook  advised  him  to  call  his 
hearse  instead  of  his  carriage.  Even  the  cabby, 
whom  he  hailed  at  midnight  from  St.  Paul's  church 
yard,  knew  too  much  to  desire  a  ghost  as  passenger, 
and  cried  out,  as  he  drove  rapidly  on,  "  Go  back ! 
go  back  to  your  grave,  old  man  !  " 

He  was  handsome  in  youth,  but  at  ninety-four 
one  might  be  pardoned  for  looking  slightly  shriv 
eled. 

Jack  Bannister  maintained  that  more  good  things 
had  been  said  and  written  on  Rogers'  face  than  on 
that  of  the  greatest  beauty. 

When  Rogers  repeated  the  couplet  — 

"  The  robin  with  his  furtive  glance, 
Comes  and  looks  at  me  askance." 

*  In  the  shape  of  Amanda's  mother. 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  87 

Ward  struck  in  with. 

"  If  it  had  been  a  carrion  crow  he  would  have 
looked  you  full  in  the  face  !  " 

One  wag  insisted  that  he  had  been  once  shut  up 
in  the  Catacombs,  mistaken  for  a  mummy  !  And 
they  said  of  his  picture,  a  faithful  likeness,  that  it 
was  "  painted  to  the  death  !  " 

Byroifplaced  Rogers  next  to  Scott  as  a  poet. 
He  had  a  decided  talent  for  epigrams,  and  his  table 
talk  is  delightful.  A  friend  remarked,  "  If  you 
enter  his  house,  his  drawing-room,  his  library,  you 
of  yourself  say,  '  This  is  not  the  dwelling  of  a  com 
mon  mind.'  There  is  not  a  gem,  a  coin,  a  book 
thrown  aside  on  his  chimney-piece,  his  sofa,  his 
table  that  does  not  bespeak  an  almost  fastidious 
elegance.  But  this  very  delicacy  must  be  the  mis 
ery  of  his  existence.  He  was  reputed  a  wit,  as  well 
as  poet,  and  did  say  some  good  things  and  many 
severe  ones.  Going  to  Holland  House  by  the  Ham 
mersmith  stage-coach,  a  lumbering  old  tortoise  of  a 
vehicle,  he  asked  the  driver  what  he  called  it. 
Being  answered  "  The  Regulator,"  he  observed  "  it 
was  a  very  proper  name,  as  all  the  others^  by  it." 

"  When  Croker  wrote  his  review  in  the  Quarterly 
of  Macaulay's  '  History,'  he  intended  murder,  but 
committed  suicide." 

On  somebody  remarking  that  Payne  Knight  had 
become  very  deaf — " 'Tis  from  want  of  practice," 
replied  Rogers  ;  "  he  is  the  worst  listener  I  know." 

Rogers'  breakfasts  were  even  better  than  his 
poems. 


88  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

He  might  also  be  classed  as  "an  opulent  catch, 
who  wouldn't  be  caught." 

His  epigram  on  Ward,  Lord  Dudley,  is  excellent : 

"  Ward  has  no  heart,  they  say,  but  I  deny  it, 
He  has  a  heart  and  gets  his  speeches  by  it." 

Byron  pronounced  this  to  be  one  of  the  best  epi 
grams  in  the  English  language,  with  the  true  Greek 
talent  of  expressing  by  implication  what  is  wished 
to  be  conveyed. 

Miss  Sedgwick,  who  breakfasted  with  Rogers 
and  called  him  the  "  king  of  old  bachelors,"  said 
that  he  pronounced  matrimony  a  folly  at  any  period 
of  life,  and  quoted  the  saying  of  some  one  that,  "  No 
matter  whom  you  married,  you  would  find  after 
wards  you  had  married  another  person  !  " 

Yet  Hayward,  in  a  recent  essay  in  the  Edinburgh, 
tells  us  that  during  the  last  four  or  five  years  of 
Rogers'  life  he  was  constantly  expatiating  on  the 
advantages  of  marriage,  and  regretting  he  had  not 
married,  because  then  he  should  have  had  a  nice 
woman  to  care  for  him. 

His  own  version  of  his  nearest  approximation  to 
the  nuptial  tie  was,  that  when  a  young  man,  he 
admired  and  sedulously  sought  the  society  of  the 
most  beautiful  girl  he  then,  and  still  thought,  he  had 
ever  seen.  At  the  end  of  the  London  season,  at  a 
ball,  she  said  :  "  I  am  going  to-morrow  to  Worthing. 
Are  you  coming  there  ? "  He  did  not  go.  Some 
months  afterwards,  being  at  Ranelagh,  he  saw  the 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  89 

attention  of  everyone  drawn  towards  a  large  party, 
in  the  center  of  which  was  a  lady  on  the  arm  of  her 
husband.  Stepping-  forward  to  see  this  wonderful 
beauty,  he  found  it  was  his  love. 

She  merely  said : 

"  You  never  came  to  Worthing." 

Voltaire  was  remarkable  for  his  attenuated  figure 
and  thin  face.  "Wicked  Mummy"  was  one  of  his 
nicknames.  He  makes  merry  in  his  letters  over  the 
meagerness  of  his  countenance,  speaking  of  himself 
as  "  a  dried  herring,"  and  once  when  he  had  said  "  I 
hope  soon  to  see  you  face  to  face,"  he  added,  "  that  is 
if  I  may  apply  the  word  face  to  such  a  phiz  as  mine  ?  " 

He  was  once  completely  discomfitted  by  Young, 
author  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts."  Voltaire  was  de 
preciating  Paradise  Lost,  particularly  disposed  to 
ridicule  Milton's  celebrated  personifications  of  death, 
sin,  and  the  devil.  Young,  who  had  a  happy  talent 
for  impromptu  wit,  retorted  : 

"  Thou  art  so  witty,  profligate,  and  thin, 
Thou  art  at  once,  the  devil,  death,  and  sin." 

Many  famous  metaphysicians,  philosophers,  and 
scientists  have  been  bachelors.  Jeremy  Bentham, 
Kant,  Locke,  Butler,  Spinoza,  Hobbes,  Newton,  Rob 
ert  Boyle,  Humboldt,  Buckle,  Spencer,  etc.  In  look 
ing  over  the  life  of  Isaac  Newton  to  find  some  ro 
mance,  I  only  encountered  such  headings  as  "  His 
tory  of  Fluxions,"  "  Lunar  Theory,"  "  Achromatic 
Telescopes,"  and  lose  courage  to  seek  further.  It  is 


90  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

reported  that  his  friends,  fearing  he  would  be  insane 
from  such  constant  mental  exertion,  induced  a  beau 
tiful  lady  to  enter  his  study  and  sit  beside  him,  hop 
ing  her  presence  might  divert  him  from  his  labors. 
He  had  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  as  usual,  and  the  only 
notice  taken  of  the  fair  invader  was  to  borrow  her 
dainty  finger  to  punch  his  pipe  bowl.  She  declared 
she  would  not  be  used  as  a  tobacco  stopper,  and  so 
the  affair  ended,  in  smoke  ! 

Bunsen,  the  celebrated  German  chemist,  became 
so  engrossed  in  an  experiment  on  his  w^edding  day 
as  to  entirely  forget  his  waiting  bride,  who  was  car 
ried  off  by  another. 

Humboldt  was  described  by  a  woman  who  knew 
him  well,  as  an  amiable,  good-looking  man  ;  a  grace 
ful  dancer,  devoted  to  the  ladies  ;  a  wit,  a  diplomat, 
and  a  philosopher,  a  great  favorite  in  society.  As  he 
entered  a  drawing-room,  a  joyous  exclamation  was 
heard  from  all  present,  and  as  soon  as  the  company 
were  again  seated,  the  hostess  would  exercise  her 
privilege  of  starting  conversation,  by  suggesting  some 
topic  to  her  distinguished  guest.  The  theme  need 
not  be  scientific  ;  it  served  the  purpose  equally  well, 
if  it  were  a  bit  of  general  news  or  town  gossip.  This 
intellectual  giant  could  play  with  it  as  he  pleased, 
and  could  turn  and  twist  it  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
make  it  an  opportunity  for  the  display  of  wit,  irony, 
wordly  wisdom,  memory,  and  versatile  genius.  He 
was  a  little  feared  for  his  witticisms.  One  young 
matron  lingered  at  a  reception  until  he  departed, 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  91 

saying,  "  I  will  never  leave  so  long  as  that  gentleman 
remains.  I  should  not  like  to  be  the  subject  of  his 
remarks  !  "  (not  so  courageous  as  a  friend  of  mine 
who  was  obliged  to  hurry  away  from  a  dinner  for 
the  opera,  who  said  with  a  smiling  bow  to  a  witty 
French  woman  among  the  guests,  who  would  always 
sacrifice  a  friend  for  an  epigram  :  "  Madam,  I  leave 
my  reputation  in  your  hands  !  ")  But  there  was  no 
malevolence  in  Humboldt's  character-sketches.  'Bis 
marck,  who  disliked  him,  is  reported  as  saying  that 
he  was  a  conceited,  insupportable  chatterer,  and  a 
disgusting  glutton  !  To  offset  this  harsh  estimate  is 
Ingersoll's  eloquent  tribute  :  "  We  associate  the  name 
of  Humboldt  with  oceans,  continents,  mountains, 
and  volcanoes ;  with  the  great  palms,  the  wide  des 
erts,  the  snow-tipped  craters  of  the  Andes  ;  with  pri 
meval  forests,  and  European  capitals ;  with  wilder 
nesses  and  universities  ;  with  savages  and  savans  ; 
with  the  lovely  views  of  unpeopled  wastes  ;  with 
peaks  and  pampas,  and  steppes,  and  cliffs,  and  crags. 
With  the  progress  of  the  world  ;  with  every  science 
known  to  man ;  with  every  star  glittering  in  the 
immensity  of  space  —  the  world  is  his  monument !  " 
Here  are  a  few  unique  statements  from  this 
inveterate  bachelor:  "I  regard  marriage  as  a  sin. 
It  is  my  conviction  also  that  he  is  a  fool,  and  still 
more  a  sinner,  who  takes  upon  himself  the  yoke  of 
marriage ;  a  fool,  because  he  thereby  throws  away 
his  freedom,  without  gaining  a  corresponding  recom 
pense  ;  a  sinner,  because  he  gives  life  to  children 


92  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

without  being  able  to  give  them  the  certainty  of  hap 
piness.  The  whole  of  life  is  the  greatest  insanity." 

Buckle,  who  was  always  an  invalid,  declared  that 
he  owed  everything  to  his  mother,  with  whom  he  lived. 
After  her  death  he  said :  "  For  the  opinion  of  the 
world  I  care  nothing,  because,  now  at  least,  there  is 
no  one  whose  censure  I  fear,  or  whose  praise  I  covet." 
In  her  society  he  found  all  the  aid  and  sympathy  he 
needed,  and  through  her  influence  he  was  led  to 
value  the  mental  sympathy  and  companionship  of 
women,  with  whom  he  was  a  great  favorite.  One  of 
his  finest  discourses  was  on  "  The  influence  of  woman 
on  the  progress  of  knowledge." 

A  bachelor  is  apt  to  have  his  hobbies,  his  were 
books,  chess,  cigars,  and  "  averages ".  He  also  de 
clared  he  would  not  marry  until  he  had  $5,000  a  year, 
and  never  attained  that  comfortable  income. 

The  Pessimist,  as  "  Schopenhauer,  who  did  not 
wish  to  be  loved  by  his  fellow-men,  for,  in  order  to 
be  loved  by  them,  one  must  be  like  them,  which, 
God  forbid !  When  the  cat  is  a  kitten,  she  plays 
with  little  paper  balls;  she  imagines  that  they  are 
alive  and  like  herself.  When  she  is  old,  she  knows 
better,  and  lets  them  lie." 

Such  had  been  his  experience  with  the  bipeds. 
He  was  a  woman-hater,  and  gloried  in  his  celibacy. 
"  The  so-called  career  of  most  young  men,"  he  said, 
"ends  in  their  becoming  beasts  of  burden  to  women. 
The  married  man  bears  the  full  burden  of  life ;  the 
unmarried  but  half.  All  genuine  philosophers  have 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  93 

been  celibates  —  Descartes,  Leibnitz,  Malebranche, 
Spinoza,  Kant.  The  ancients  are  not  to  be  taken 
into  account,  because  woman  with  them  occupied  a 
subordinate  position.  Moreover,  Socrates'  matri 
monial  experience  did  not  recommend  the  nuptial 
state  to  scholars." 

Josiah  Royce  tells  us  of  insanity  in  his  family, 
and  says,  "  the  man,  unquestionably,  was  incapable 
of  a  permanently  cheerful  view  of  life  —  a  born  out 
cast,  doomed  to  hide  and  be  lonely."  His  mother 
did  not  enjoy  his  "rhetorically  gloomy"  letters. 
"  Everything,"  he  writes  to  her,  "  is  washed  away  in 
time's  stream.  The  minutes,  the  numberless  atoms 
of  pettiness  into  which  every  deed  is  dissolved,  are 
the  worms  that  gnaw  at  everything  great  and  noble 
to  destroy  it."  His  mother  found  this  sort  of  thing 
rather  tedious.  A  most  brilliant  company  often 
gathered  at  her  house  in  Weimar,  with  Goethe  at 
the  head,  and  her  son,  a  youth  of  twenty,  could  not 
add  grace  to  such  a  scene  so  long  as  he  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  time  and  worms. 

She  wrote  him  plainly,  being  a  woman  as  clear 
headed  as  she  was  charming  :  "  When  you  get  older, 
dear  Arthur,  and  see  things  more  clearly,  perhaps 
we  shall  agree  better.  Till  then  let  us  see  that  our 
thousand  little  quarrels  do  not  hunt  love  out  of  our 
hearts.  To  that  end  we  must  keep  well  apart.  You 
have  your  lodgings.  As  for  my  house,  whenever 
you  come  you  are  a  guest,  and  are  welcome,  of  course, 
only  you  mustn't  interfere.  I  can't  bear  objections. 


94  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

Days  when  I  receive,  you  may  take  supper  with  me 
if  you'll  only  be  so  good  as  to  refrain  from  your  pain 
ful  disputations  which  make  me  angry,  too,  and  from 
all  your  lamentations  over  the  stupid  world  and  the 
sorrows  of  mankind,  for  all  that  always  gives  me  a 
bad  night  and  horrid  dreams,  and  I  do  so  like  sound 
sleep." 

How  short-sighted  are  the  students  who  insist 
that  it  is  not  necessary  to  know  an  author's  history  to 
understand  his  work.  Schopenhauer,  the  morbid 
mystic,  was  simply  a  result  of  an  unfortunate  com 
bination  of  inherited  mental  qualities.  He  could 
not  help  it ;  he  lived  alone,  he  died  alone.  "  His 
name  is  everywhere  a  symbol  for  all  that  is  most 
dark  and  deep  and  sad  and  dangerous  about  the  phi 
losophy  of  our  time."  We  pity  him,  and  if  we  are 
wise,  avoid  his  unhealthy  influence. 

Cowley  was  spoken  of  in  youth  as  the  most  ami 
able  of  mankind,  but,  being  ill-treated  in  a  love  affair 
in  his  latter  days,  could  not  afterwards  endure  the 
sight  of  a  woman,  and  would  leave  the  room  if  one 
came  into  it. 

James  Smith  of  the  famous  "  Rejected  Addresses," 
was  a  bachelor.  "  I  have  had  a  horrid  dream,"  he 
wrote  in  his  diary,  "  namely,  that  I  was  engaged  to 
be  married ;  introduced  to  my  bride,  a  simpering, 
young  woman,  with  flaxen  hair,  in  white  gloves,  just 
going  to  declare  off  —  cotite  que  cotite  —  when,  to  my 
inexpressible  relief,  I  awoke. 

It  is  noticeable  that  the  best  Letter-writers  have 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  95 

been  bachelors  —  Erasmus,  Walpole,  Gray,  Pope, 
Cowper,  and  Macaulay.  They  were  not  subjected  to 
the  domestic  interruptions  so  comically  described  by 
Hood  in  his  "  Parental  Ode,"  ending  — 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write  unless  HE'S  sent  above." 

Erasmus  was  the  most  facetious  man  and  the 
greatest  critic  of  his  age  —  a  moderate  reformer  who 
satisfied  neither  side.  He  exposed  with  great  free 
dom  the  vices  and  corruptions  of  his  own  church,  yet 
never  would  be  persuaded  to  leave  the  communion. 
In  his  most  remarkable  work,  "The  Praise  of  Folly," 
he  laughs  at  the  faults  and  foibles  of  all  classes  and 
professions  in  a  good-humored  way.  Open  the  book 
at  random,  you  will  find  something  to  entertain  you. 

In  a  gossipy  letter  to  Faustus  Andrelinus,  poet- 
laureate  of  France,  another  bachelor  author,  Erasmus 
dwells  with  delight  on  a  custom  never  to  be  suffi 
ciently  commended  (saluting  ladies  with  a  kiss  on 
meeting  or  leaving),  saying :  "  Faustus,  if  you  well 
knew  the  advantages  of  Britain,  you  would  hasten 
hither  with  wings  to  your  feet,  and  if  your  gout 
would  not  permit,  you  would  wish  you  possessed  the 
art  of  Dardalus." 

Erasmus  left  the  bulk  of  his  fortune  as  dowries 
for  young  maidens. 

Horace  Walpole,  who  satirized  for  sixty  years 
the  men  and  women,  manners  and  morals  of  his 
times  in  letters  to  friends,  "  loved  letter  writing  and 
studied  it  as  an  art."  Macaulay  thinks  "  his  letters 


96  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

his  best  performances."  Macaulay's  "  Essay  on 
Walpole  "  is  so  brilliant,  critical,  and  complete  that 
all  who  are  not  familiar  with  it  should  enjoy  it  at 
once. 

Such  racy,  natural,  spiteful  pictures  of  life  as 
Walpole  loves  to  give  are  invaluable,  and  when 
mixed  with  brains  they  embody  history. 

The  letters  were  carefully  prepared  for  publica 
tion.  Nothing  else  that  he  has  written  will  live. 

In  his  old  age  he  was  devoted  to  the  beautiful 
and  talented  Mary  Berry,  but,  from  fear  of  being 
laughed  at  by  the  world  he  had  so  mercilessly  ridi 
culed,  assumed  an  equal  interest  in  her  sister, 
Agnes,  who  was  comparatively  commonplace,  and 
did  not  dare  to  own  himself  a  more  than  septua 
genarian  lover.  His  letters  prove  his  deep  and 
ardent  attachment,  and  his  fascinating  friend  de 
served  the  title  of  Lady  Orford.  How  much  happier 
the  rheumatic,  lonely  old  fellow  might  have  been  ! 

Miss  Martineau,  who  knew  the  Berrys,  asserts  in 
her  positive  way  that  he  did  offer  himself  to  both. 
Impartial,  certainly,  but  as  there  is  no  other  refer 
ence  to  this,  it  is  safe  to  presume  that  her  trumpet 
reported  inaccurately,  as  was  frequently  the  case. 
Irving  compares  such  an  elderly  bachelor  to  an  old 
moth,  attempting  to  fly  through  a  pane  of  glass 
towards  a  light,  without  ever  approaching  near 
enough  to  warm  itself  or  scorch  its  wings ! 

Pope  took  great  pains  with  his  letters,  and  was  so 
proud  of  them  as  to  send  duplicate  copies  to  differ 
ent  ladies. 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  97 

When  women  feel  inclined  to  dislike  "  the  Wasp 
of  Twickenham "  they  should  remember  his  fond 
reverential  devotion  to  his  mother.  Dean  Swift 
declared  that  he  had  not  only  never  witnessed,  but 
had  never  heard  of  anything  like  it.  She  lived  to 
be  ninety-three,  and  had  been  for  some  time  in  her 
dotage,  but  to  him  her  death  was  a  deadly  wound. 

Pope  was  often  atrociously  abused  before  he 
stung  his  enemies,  and  is  represented  as  warm 
hearted  and  self-sacrificing  by  those  who  knew  him 
best. 

The  epigrammatic,  quotable  couplet  was  Pope's 
best  mode  of  expression.  Regarding  marriage  he 
wrote  : 

"  Who  would  bear  the  dull  unsocial  hours, 
Spent  by  unmarried  men,  cheered  by  no  smile. 
To  sit  like  hermit  at  a  lonely  board, 
In  silence." 

We  think  of  Macaulay  as  a  learned  historian,  a 
brilliant  essayist,  an  extraordinary  talker.  "  Poor 
Macaulay,"  said  the  roguish  Sydney  Smith,  when 
both  had  been  talking  at  the  same  time,  "  will  be 
very  sorry  some  day  to  have  missed  all  this."  He 
also  alluded  most  wittily  to  Macaulay 's  "  flashes  of 
silence,"  and  some  one  accounts  for  his  never  mar 
rying,  on  account  of  his  passionate  love  for  clever 
talk  of  his  own.  Brougham  wrote  of  Macaulay  as 
the  greatest  of  bores  in  society.  He  said :  "  I  have 
seen  people  come  in  from  Holland  house  breathless 
and  able  to  say  nothing  but  '  Oh  dear,  Oh  mercy !  ' 


98  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

'  What's  the  matter  ?  '  '  Oh  Macaulay  ! '  Then  every 
one  said,  '  That  accounts  for  it.  You're  lucky  to  be 
alive.'  "  But  read  his  life,  more  interesting  than 
any  novel,  and  see  how  his  loving  nature  shines  out 
in  home  life  and  in  his  letters  to  his  idolized  sisters. 

Macaulay,  as  a  bachelor,  is  a  mystery.  When  he 
loved,  he  loved  more  entirely  and  more  exclusively 
than  was  well  for  himself. 

"  It  was  improvident  in  him  to  concentrate  such 
intensity  of  feeling  upon  relations,  who,  however 
deeply  they  were  attached  to  him,  could  not  always 
be  in  a  position  to  requite  him  with  the  whole  of 
their  time  and  the  whole  of  their  heart.  He  suf 
fered  much  for  that  improvidence.  After  the  mar 
riage  of  his  sister  Margaret,  he  never  again  recov 
ered  his  tone  of  thorough  boyishness,"  and  he  wrote  : 

"  I  have  still  one  more  stake  to  lose.  There 
remains  one  event  for  which,  when  it  arrives,  I  shall, 
I  hope,  be  prepared.  From  that  moment,  with  a 
heart  formed,  if  ever  any  man's  heart  was  formed 
for  domestic  happiness,  I  shall  have  nothing  left  in 
this  world  but  ambition. 

"After  all,  what  am  I  more  than  my  fathers? 
Than  the  millions  and  tens  of  millions  who  have 
been  weak  enough  to.  pay  double  price  for  some 
favorite  number  in  the  lottery  of  life,  and  who  have 
suffered  double  disappointment  when  their  ticket 
came  up  a  blank. 

"I  am  sitting  in  the  midst  of  two  hundred  friends, 
all  mad  with  exultation  and  party  spirit,  all  glorying 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  99 

over  the  Tories,  and  thinking  me  the  happiest  man 
in  the  world.  And  it  is  all  I  can  do  to  hide  my  tears 
and  to  command  my  voice  when  it  is  necessary  for 
me  to  reply  to  their  congratulations.  Dearest, 
dearest  sister,  you  alone  are  now  left  to  me.  Whom 
have  I  on  earth  but  thee  ?  But  for  you,  in  the  midst 
of  all  these  successes,  I  should  wish  that  I  were  lying 
by  poor  Hyde  Villiers.  But  I  cannot  go  on." 

At  the  close  of  his  life,  the  prospect  of  a  separa 
tion  from  his  sister  Hannah,  with  whom  he  had 
lived  in  close  and  uninterrupted  companionship 
since  her  childhood  and  his  own  early  manhood, 
darkened  his  last  hours.  He  endured  it  manfully, 
but  his  spirits  never  recovered  the  blow. 

"This  prolonged  parting  —  this  slow  sipping  of 
the  vinegar  and  the  gall  —  is  terrible.  A  month 
more  of  such  days  as  I  have  been  passing  of  late 
would  make  me  impatient  to  get  to  my  little  nar 
row  crib,  like  a  weary  factory  child." 

You  see  that  now  and  then  a  literary  bachelor's 
own  confession  proves  his  solitude  and  forlornity. 

Thomas  Hollis,  a  devotee  to  literature  and  repub 
licanism,  who  would  not  marry  lest  marriage  should 
interrupt  his  labors,  writes  in  his  autobiography  of 
his  deep  dejection,  and  cries  out  wearily  that  he  has 
no  one  to  advise,  assist,  or  cherish  him,  that  he 
goes  nowhere  for  the  pleasure  of  it,  but  as  a  used 
man,  always  laboring  for  others,  with  no  sunshine  or 
comfort  for  himself. 

Mark    Akenside,   who,    "  when    he   walked    the 


1OO  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

streets,  looked  for  all  the  world  like  one  of  his  own 
Alexandrines  set  upright,"  was  an  irritable,  cross- 
grained  bachelor,  but  this  infirmity  was  excused  as 
caused  by  two  disappointments  in  love.  He  sighed 
for  domestic  comfort  in  this  fashion  : 

"  Though  the  day  have  smoothly  gone, 
Or  to  lettered  leisure  known, 
Or  in  social  duty  spent, 
Yet  at  eve,  my  lonely  breast 
Seeks  in  vain  for  perfect  rest, 
Languishes  for  true  content." 

It  is  said  that  he  neglected  the  sick  women  in  his 
visits  to  the  hospital,  so  great  was  his  antipathy  to 
the  sex  ! 

One  of  our  modern  literary  bachelors  (James 
Whitcomb  Riley)  writes  thus  : 

BEREAVED. 

"  Let  me  come  in  where  you  sit  weeping  —  Aye, 
Let  me,  who  have  not  any  child  to  die, 
Weep  with  you  for  the  little  one  whose  love 
I  have  known  nothing  of. 

The  little  arms  that  slowly,  slowly  loosed 
Their  pressure  round  your  neck  ;  —  the  hands  you  used 
To  kiss. —  Such  arms  —  such  hands  I  never  knew. 
May  I  not  weep  with  you  ? 

Fain  would  I  be  of  service  —  say  some  thing, 
Between  the  tears,  that  would  be  comforting, — 
But  ah  !  so  sadder  than  yourselves  am  I, 

Who  have  no  child  to  die." 

The  Bachelor  Wit  and  Diner-out  is  another  type, 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  101 

like  Theodore  Hook,  whom  Coleridge  pronounced  to 
have  had  a  genius  equal  to  Dante,  but  sadly  misused, 
and  his  life  a  miserable  failure.  Theodore,  with  his 
improvisations  and  practical  jokes,  deserves  more 
space. 

Many  bachelors  might  be  mentioned  of  this  type, 
their  morals  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  their  ability.  Her- 
rick,  Hook,  Shenstone,  and  others,  preferred  the  com 
panionship  of  their  servants  to  orthodox  home  life. 

Halleck,  "  the  first  poet-laureate  of  New  York 
city,"  who  modestly  alluded  to  himself  as  but  an 
amateur  in  the  literary  orchestra,  posed  as  a  bachelor, 
but  was  privately  married  and  had  two  lovely  daugh 
ters  said  to  have  inherited  much  of  their  father's 
ability.  He  must  have  been  extremely  attractive, 
for  a  lady  of  position  and  culture  said  of  him  :  "  If  I 
were  on  my  way  to  church  to  be  married  —  yes,  even 
if  I  was  walking  up  the  aisle,  and  Halleck  were  to  offer 
himself,  I'd  leave  the  man  I  had  promised  to  marry 
and  take  him." 

His  "  Marco  Bozarris  "  ran  like  wild-fire  through 
the  country.  Rogers,  who  was  fond  of  reading  it  to 
his  guests,  said  :  "  It  is  better  than  anything  we  can 
do  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic."  "  Fanny,"  his  long 
est  poem,  a  pleasant  satire  on  follies  in  fashions  and 
politics,  was  immensely  liked  in  its  day. 

Bryant  said  of  his  poem  on  Burns,  "  I  am  not  sure 
that  these  verses  are  not  the  finest  in  which  one  poet 
ever  celebrated  another.  The  lines 

"  None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
None  named  thee  but  to  praise," 


102  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

which  he  wrote  on  the  death  of  his  literary  partner, 
Drake,  could  well  be  used  for  himself.     Here  is  an 
amusing  letter  he   wrote  to  a  friend  on  hearing  of 
the  approaching  marriage  of  an  old  man  : 
/ 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR: 

"  I  am  very  glad,  indeed,  to  learn  from  your  kind  letter  of  re 
membrance,  that  there  are  sensible  young  women  besides  Mrs. 
Enoch  (see  Genesis  v,  21)  and  the  late  Lady  Leicester,  who  believe 
it  takes  sixty-five  years  to  make  a  good  husband.  Mrs.  Enoch 
became  the  mother  of  Methusalem,  a  millionaire  in  years,  and 
Lady  Leicester,  the  mother  of  five  sons,  each  a  multi-millionaire  in 
money.  May  your  marriage  destiny  be  the  long  life  of  the  one 
and  the  long  purses  of  the  other.  For  my  own  part,  I  still  continue 
to  fancy  that  Methusalem's  resolution,  not  to  marry  until  he  was 
one  hundred  and  eighty-one,  was  wise  and  prudent  as  a  general 
rule.  I  am  fast  approaching  that  interesting  period  ;  and,  unless 
Mrs.  Hackett,  when  I  have  the  pleasure  of  conversing  with  her, 
shall  by  reference  to  her  own  pleasant  example  persuade  me  into 
an  early  marriage,  I  shall  wait  patiently  another  century  for  the 
happy  day." 

The  Jilted  literary  bachelors  are  numerous,  from 
Jeremy  Bentham  to  Chorley,  but  I  regard  them  too 
highly  to  recall  their  lack  of  reciprocated  affection. 

The  Timid  bachelor.  I  make  this  division,  be 
cause  a  bachelor  assures  me  there  are  many  unhappy 
men,  who  actually  have  not  the  courage  to  undertake 
the  solemn  responsibilities  of  matrimony,  but  that,  if 
a  lady  would  only  take  such  a  specimen  kindly  but 
firmly  by  the  ear  and  lead  him  to  the  altar,  he  would 
go  and  be  grateful. 

The  Ideal  bachelor.  No  need  to  give  the  name. 
Every  heart  prompts,  every  mouth  utters  the  same— 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  103 

simple-hearted,  kindly,  shy  ;  a  "  friend  "  in  the  truest 
sense,  not  only  to  the  slave  and  the  suffering,  but  to 
children,  to  the  homely  country  life,  and  the  simple 
wayside  flowers  of  New  England,  to  humanity  ;  whose 
breadth  is  seen  in  his  creed  rather  than  his  hat-brim 
—  the  revered,  beloved  Whittier.  Yet  he  often 
speaks  regretfully  of  what  he  has  lost  in  his  single 
life.  Here  is  a  bit  from  a  letter  addressed  to  an  old- 
time  friend. 

"  The  years,  that  since  we  met  have  flown, 
Leave,  as  they  found  me,  still  alone. 
Nor  wife,  nor  child,  nor  grandchild  dear, 
Are  mine,  the  heart  to  cheer. 
More  favored  thou;  with  hair  less  gray 
Than  mine,  can  let  thy  fancy  stray 
To  where  thy  little  Constance  sees 
The  prairie  ripple  in  the  breeze. 
For  one  like  her  to  lisp  thy  name, 
Is  better  than  the  voice  of  fame.  " 

Reference  is  made  to  his  friend's  grandchild, 
Constance. 

Lastly,  the  Irresistibles.  I  hear  a  wild  commotion 
round  me  at  this  announcement,  and  find  that  almost 
every  man  I  had  otherwise  placed  is  pushing  into 
this  division  as  his  proper  sphere.  You  see  how  'tis. 
I  can  do  nothing  with  them,  after  all.  But  there  is 
woman's  last  refuge  —  I  can  still  talk  about  them. 

To  the  conundrum,  "  Why  are  men  of  genius 
so  often  bachelors  ? "  it  may  be  answered  that 
such  instances  are  not  owing  to  anything  like  a 
want  of  appreciation  of  woman's  worth  or  charms, 


104  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

but  to  unfavorable  circumstances.  Most  of  these 
celebrated  celibates  have  been  deep  in  love.  "  I 
have  seldom  met  with  an  old  bachelor,"  said  Irving, 
"  who  had  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  some  trait  of 
romance  in  his  life  to  which  he  looks  back  with 
fondness,  and  about  which  he  is  apt  to  grow  garru 
lous  occasionally." 

It  is  self-evident  that  all  bachelors  remain  unmar 
ried  from  preference.  They  may  not  be  able  to  win 
the  one  woman  of  their  choice  —  but  there  are  always 
plenty  more  from  which  to  make  a  selection. 

Dr.  Holmes  observes  that  even  Lazarus  could 
have  married  if  he  could  have  picked  up  crumbs 
enough  to  support  a  wife  ! 

You  remember  that  when  a  lady  suggested  a  tax 
on  bachelors,  one  of  them  promptly  acquiesced, 
saying :  "  They  ought  to  be  taxed  for  freedom,  as  it 
was  certainly  a  luxury.  In  the  Annual  Register  of 
London,  a  serious  proposition  from  the  House  of 
Commons  is  recorded,  that  all  unmarried  men  over 
thirty-five  should  pay  a  special  tax,  and  it  has  been 
proposed  by  Robert  Dale  Owen  for  our  country. 
This  law  was  carried  into  execution  in  Sparta,  and  in 
Athens  there  were  persons  whose  business  was 
matchmaking.  In  Prof.  Felton's  Greece,  Ancient 
and  Modern,  a  detailed  account  is  given  of  this. 

I  fear  it  would  be  difficult  to  collect  a  tax  of 
this  sort  from  bachelors  of  the  present  day,  even 
a  small  yearly  stipendum  for  the  oakless  vines, 
hanging  in  limp  profusion  all  about  them.  The 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  105 

Roman  Censor,  Metellus,  appeals  to  bachelors  in  this 
way :  "  Fellow  citizens,  if  we  could  live  without 
wives,  we  should  be  free  of  this  burden,  but 
since  nature  has  willed  that  it  is  as  impossible  to 
live  without  them  as  it  is  unpleasant  to  live  with 
them,  let  us  lay  these  disagreeablenesses  of  this 
short  life  as  offerings  on  the  altar  of  the  state." 

I  wonder  that  Cato's  sentiments  have  not  been 
blazoned  on  the  banners  of  the  agitators  for 
Women's  Rights.  "  Recall,"  he  says,  "  all  the  ordi- 
ances  of  our  forefathers,  designed  to  keep  women  in 
subjection,  and  yet,  ye  could  hardly  keep  them 
bridled.  What  shall  be  the  result  if  ye  give  them 
freedom  and  the  same  rights  which  ye  have  your 
selves.  At  the  moment  when  they  became  your 
equals,  they  will  become  your  superiors  !  " 

Lord  Bacon's  dicta  are  familiar  to  all : 

li  Certainly  the  best  works  and  of  greatest  merit 
for  the  public  have  proceeded  from  the  unmarried 
or  childless  men,  who,  both  in  affection  and  means, 
have  married  and  endowed  the  public." 

The  conjugal  troubles  of  Shakespeare  and  Dry- 
den,  Milton,  Addison,  Shelley,  Bulwer,  Byron,  Dick 
ens,  with  a  score  of  lesser  lights,  may  have  alarmed 
some  bachelor  authors.  As  women  are  supposed  to 
have  personal  reasons  for  disapproving  of  bachelors, 
please  notice  that  I  only  quote  the  severe  criticisms 
of  other  men. 

Dickens  says  of  them :  "  Old  bachelors  are  like 
those  strange,  wandering  fires  that  seem  to  have  no 


106  Bachelor  Authors  in  Types 

fixed  spheres,  serve  no  known  law  in  the  moral  uni 
verse,  the  purpose  of  whose  existence  being  a 
mystery  to  themselves  and  all  about  them.  These 
singular  specimens  of  humanity  are  in  an  anomalous 
condition,  for  they  are  not  only  isolated  in  their  self 
ishness,  but  they  have  also  outlawed  themselves 
from  the  rights  and  privileges  of  domestic  life." 

In  Thackeray's  Pendennis  you  will  find  a  touch 
ing  description  of  a  bachelor's  forlorn  apartments, 
ending  — "  To  be  well  in  chambers  is  melancholy  and 
lonely  and  selfish  enough,  but  to  be  ill  in  chambers, 
to  pass  nights  of  pain  and  watchfulness,  and  long  for 
the  morning  and  the  laundress,  to  have  no  other 
companion  for  long  hours  but  your  own  sickening 
fancies  and  fevered  thoughts,  no  kind  hand  to  give 
you  drink  if  you  are  thirsty,  or  to  smooth  the  hot 
pillow  that  crumples  under  you,  this  indeed  is  a 
fate  so  desolate  and  tragic  that  we  shall  not  enlarge 
upon  its  horror." 

Franklin  compares  a  bachelor  to  a  half-pair  of 
scissors,  and  Beecher  says  :  "A  bachelor  is  like  an 
old  hemlock  tree,  dead  at  top,  and  ragged  all  the 
way  down." 

For  a  farewell  picture  let  me  give  from  Praed,  an 
old  bachelor's  violent  protest  against  matrimony : 

"  When  the  dim  eyes  shall  gaze  and  fear 
To  close  the  glance  that  lingers  here , 
Watching  the  faint,  departing  light, 
That  seems  to  nicker  in  its  flight  ; 
When  the  lone  heart  in  that  long  strife 
Shall  cling  unconsciously  to  life; 


Bachelor  Authors  in  Types  107 

I'll  have  no  shrieking  female  by 

To  shed  her  drops  of  sympathy, 

To  listen  to  each  smothered  throe, 

To  feel  or  feign  officious  woe, 

To  bring  me  every  useless  cup, 

And  beg,  dear  Tom,  to  drink  it  up  ! 

To  turn  my  oldest  servants  off, 

E'en  as  she  hears  my  gurgling  cough, 

And  then  expectingly  to  stand, 

And  chafe  my  temples  with  her  hand  ; 

And  pull  a  cleaner  nightcap  o'er  'em, 

That  I  may  die  with  due  decorum; 

And  watch  the  while  my  ebbing  breath, 

And  count  the  tardy  steps  of  death  ; 

Grudging  the  Leech  his  growing  skill, 

And  wrapped  in  dreams  about  the  will ; 

I'll  have  no  furies  round  my  bed, 

They  shall  not  plague  me  till  I'm  dead. 

Believe  me,  ill  my  dust  would  rest, 
If  the  plain  marble  on  my  breast, 
That  tells  in  letters  large  and  clear, 
The  bones  of  Thomas  Quince  lies  here, 
Should  add  —  a  talisman  of  strife  — 
Also,  the  bones  of  Jane,  his  wife  !  " 


LADY  MORGAN. 


IF  the  veritable  Lady  Morgan,  with  her  wit  and 
vanity,  poor  French  and  fine  clothes,  good  common 
sense  and  warm  Irish  heart,  could  be  with  you  this 
moment,  she  would  be  a  most  entertaining  compan 
ion.  A  spirited,  versatile,  spunky  little  woman,  her 
whole  life  a  grand  social  success,  one  of  the  most 
popular  and  voluminous  writers  of  her  day;  but, 
with  all  her  sparkle  and  dash,  ambition  and  industry, 
destined  in  a  few  generations  more  to  be  almost  un 
known,  vanishing  down  that  doleful  "  back  entry  " 
where  Time  sends  so  many  bright  men  and  women. 
As  the  founder  of  Irish  fiction  —  for  the  national, 
tales  of  Ireland  begin  with  her  —  and  the  patron  of 
Irish  song  (she  stimulated  Lover  to  write  "  Rory 
O'More,"  and  "  Kate  Kearney  "  is  her  own),  always 
laboring  for  liberty  and  the  interests  of  her  oppressed 
countrymen,  and  preserving  her  name  absolutely 
untouched  by  scandal  through  a  long  and  brilliant 
career,  she  deserves  a  place  among  distinguished 
women.  She  evidently  had  no  idea  of  being  forgot 
ten,  and  completed  twenty  chapters  of  autobiography 
—  its  florid  egotism  at  once  its  fault  and  its  charm  — 
besides  keeping  a  diary  in  later  years,  and  preserv 
ing  nearly  all  the  letters  written  to  her,  from  tributes 
of  poets  and  exiles  to  the  petitions  of  weavers  and 


Lady  Morgan  109 

chimney  sweeps,  and  even  cards  left  at  her  door. 
But  on  those  cards  were  the  names  of  Humboldt, 
Cuvier,  Talma,  and  the  most  celebrated  men  of  that 
epoch,  down  to  Macaulay,  Douglas  Jerrold,  and  Ed 
ward  Everett,  while  she  could  count  among  her  cor 
respondents  the  noted  men  and  women  of  three 
countries.  La  Fayette  declared  he  was  proud  to  be 
her  friend;  Byron  praised  her  writings,  and  always 
expressed  regret  that  he  had  not  made  her  acqaint- 
ance  in  Italy ;  Sydney  Smith  coupled  her  name  with 
his  own  as  "the  two  Sydneys "  ;  Leigh  Hunt  cele 
brated  her  in  verse ;  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  Ary 
Scheffer,  and  other  famous  artists  begged  for  the 
honor  of  painting  her  portrait.  Was  it  strange  after 
all  this,  and  being  told  for  half  a  century  that  she 
was  an  extraordinarily  gifted  and  fascinating  wo 
man,  that  (being  a  woman)  she  should  believe  it  ? 

She  was  extremely  sensitive  in  regard  to  her  age, 
and  if  forced  to  state  it  on  the  witness-stand  would 
doubtless  have  whispered  it  to  the  judge  in  a  be 
witching  way,  as  did  a  pretty  but  slightly  passe 
French  actress  under  similar  embarrassing  circum 
stances.  She  pleads  :  "  What  has  a  woman  to  do 
with  dates  —  cold,  false,  erroneous,  chronological 
dates  —  new  style,  old  style,  precession  of  the  equi 
nox,  ill-timed  calculation  of  comets  long  since  due  at 
their  station  and  never  come  ?  Her  poetical  idiosyn 
crasy,  calculated  by  epochs,  would  make  the  most 
natural  points  of  reference  in  woman's  autobiogra 
phy.  Plutarch  sets  the  example  of  dropping  dates  in 


1 10  Lady  Morgan 

favor  of  incidents ;  and  an  authority  more  appropri 
ate,  Madame  de  Genlis,  who  began  her  own  memoirs 
at  eighty,  swept  through  nearly  an  age  of  incident 
and  revolution  without  any  reference  to  vulgar  eras 
signifying  nothing  (the  times  themselves  out  of 
joint),  testifying  to  the  pleasant  incidents  she  re 
counts  and  the  changes  she  witnessed.  /  mean  to 
have  none  of  them  !  " 

Sydney  Owenson  was  born  in  "  ancient  ould  Dub 
lin  "  at  Christmas :  the  year  is  a  little  uncertain. 
The  encyclopaedias  say  about  1780;  1776  has  been 
suggested  as  more  correct,  but  we  will  not  pry  into 
so  delicate  a  matter.  A  charming  woman  never  loses 
her  youth.  Doctor  Holmes  tells  us  that  in  traveling 
over  the  isthmus  of  life  we  do  not  ride  in  a  private 
carriage,  but  in  an  omnibus  —  meaning  that  our  an 
cestors  or  their  traits  take  the  trip  with  us ;  and  in 
studying  a  character  it  is  interesting  to  note  the  com 
binations  that  from  generations  back  make  up  the 
individual.  Sydney's  father  was  the  child  of  an  ill- 
assorted  marriage.  "  At  a  hurling-match  long  ago, 
the  Queen  of  Beauty,  Sydney,  granddaughter  of  Sir 
Maltby  Crofton,  lost  her  heart,  like  Rosalind,  to  the 
victor  of  the  day,  Walter  McOwen  (anglicised  Owen- 
son;,  a  young  farmer,  tall  and  handsome,  graceful 
and  daring,  and  allowed  him  to  discover  that  he  had 
'  wrestled  well  and  overthrown  more  than  his  ene 
mies.'  Result,  an  elopement  and  mesalliance  never 
to  be  forgiven  —  the  husband  a  jolly,  racketing  Irish 
lad,  unable  to  appreciate  his  refined,  accomplished 


Lady  Morgan  111 

wife,  a  skillful  performer  on  the  Irish,  harp,  a  poet, 
and  a  genius,  called  by  the  admiring  neighbors  '  the 
Harp  of  the  Valley.'  "  Their  only  child,  the  father 
of  Lady  Morgan,  was  a  tolerable  actor,  of  loose  mor- 
-als  and  tight  purse,  who  could  sing  a  good  song  or 
tell  a  good  story,  and  who  was  always  in  debt. 

Sydney  was  a  winsome  little  rogue,  quite  too  much 
for  her  precise  and  stately  mother,  who  was  ever 
holding  up  as  a  model  a  child,  in  her  grave  fifty 
years  agone,  who  had  read  the  Bible  through  twice 
before  she  was  five  years  old,  and  knitted  all  the 
stockings  worn  by  the  coachmen !  All  in  vain ; 
Sydney  was  not  fated  to  die  early  or  figure  as  a 
young  saint  in  a  Sunday-school  memoir.  She  took  a 
deep  interest  in  chimney-sweeps  from  observing  a 
den  of  little  imps  who  swarmed  in  a  cellar  near  her 
home,  and  on  one  occasion  actually  scrambled  up  a 
burning  chimney,  followed  by  this  sooty  troop.  Her 
pets  were  numerous,  the  prime  favorite  being  a  cat 
named  Ginger,  from  her  yellow  coat.  Her  mother, 
who  was  shocked  by  Sydney  adding  to  her  nightly 
petition,  "  God  bless  Ginger  the  cat !  "*  did  not  share 
this  partiality,  as  is  seen  in  the  young  lady's  first 
attempt  at  authorship : 

*  Puzzling  Theological  Questions  : 

"  Why  may  I  not  say,  bless  Ginger  ?  " 

"  Because  Ginger  is  not  a  Christian." 

"  Why  isn't  Ginger  a  Christian  ?  " 

"  Because  Ginger  is  only  an  animal." 

"  Am  I  a  Christian,  mamma,  or  an  animal?  " 


112  Lady  Morgan 

"  My  dear  pussy  cat, 
Were  I  a  mouse  or  a  rat, 

Sure  I  never  would  run  off  from  you, 
You're  so  funny  and  gay 
With  your  tail  when  you  play, 

And  no  song  is  so  sweet  as  your  mew. 
But  pray  keep  in  your  press, 
And  don't  make  a  mess, 

When  you  share  with  your  kittens  our  posset, 
For  mamma  can't  abide  you. 
And  I  cannot  hide  you 

Unless  you  keep  close  in  your  closet." 

Her  voice  was  remarkable,  but  her  father,  know 
ing  too  well  the  temptations  that  beset  a  public 
singer,  refused  to  cultivate  her  talent  for  music,  say 
ing,  "  If  I  were  to  do  this,  it  might  induce  her  some 
day  to  go  on  the  stage,  and  I  would  prefer  to  buy  her 
a  sieve  of  black  cockles  from  Ring's  End,  to  cry 
about  the  streets  of  Dublin,  to  seeing  her  the  first 
prima  donna  of  Europe."  A  genuine  talent  for 
music  will  assert  itself  in  spite  of  neglect,  and  one 
evening  at  the  house  of  Moore,  where,  with  her  sister 
Olivia,  she  listened  in  tearful  enthusiasm  to  some  of 
his  melodies,  sung  as  only  the  poet  could  sing  them, 
was  an  important  event  in  her  life.  She  tells  us  that 
after  this  treat  they  went  home  in  almost  delirious 
ecstacy,  actually  forgetting  to  undress  themselves 
before  going  to  bed.  This  experience  developed  a 
longing  to  know  more  of  the  early  Irish  ballads,  and 
roused  a  literary  ambition.  If  the  grocer's  son  could 
so  distinguish  himself,  she  could  surely  relieve  her 
dear  father  from  his  embarrassments  ;  and  she  began 


Lady  Morgan  113 

at  once  to  write  with  this  noble  object.  Her  unself 
ish  and  unwavering-  devotion  to  her  rather  worthless 
father  is  the  most  attractive  and  touching-  point  in 
her  character.  His  watchful  care  was  certainly  cred 
itable.  Living  in  a  town  where  soldiers  were  sta 
tioned,  he  allowed  them  no  acquaintance  with  his 
daughters.  One  of  them  said  :  "Owenson  looks  at  us 
as  if  he'd  like  to  pitch  our  entire  mess-room  of  En 
signs  out  of  the  window  in  an  armfull."  After  her 
mother's  death  she  was  sent  to  boarding-school, 
where  she  studied  well,  scribbled  verses,  accom 
plished  herself  in  dancing,  and  furnished  bright 
home-letters  for  her  less  brilliant  mates. 

She  next  figures  as  a  governess  in  the  family  of  a 
Mrs.  Featherstone  of  Bracklin  Castle.  There  wras  a 
merry  dance  for  adieu  the  night  she  was  to  leave,  but, 
like  Cinderella,  she  danced  too  long ;  the  hour 
sounded,  and  Sydney  was  hurried  into  the  coach  in  a 
white  muslin  dress,  pink  silk  stockings,  and  slippers 
of  the  same  hue,  while  Molly,  the  faithful  old  ser 
vant,  insisted  on  wrapping  her  darling  in  her  own 
warm  cloak  and  ungainly  headgear.  Being  ushered 
in  this  plight  into  a  handsome  drawing-room,  there 
was  a  general  titter  at  her  grotesque  appearance,  but 
she  told  her  story  in  her  own  captivating  way  until 
they  screamed  with  laughter  —  not  at  her  now,  but 
with  her  —  and  she  was  carried  off  to  an  exquisite 
suite  of  rooms  —  a  study,  bedroom  and  bathroom, 
with  a  roaring  turf  fire,  open  piano,  and  lots  of  books, 
and  after  dinner,  when  she  was  toasted,  she  sang  sev- 


114  Lady  Morgan 

eral  songs,  which  she  said  had  an  immense  effect, 
and  the  evening  ended  with  a  jig,  the  host  regretting 
they  had  no  spectators  besides  the  servants.  This, 
her  first  jig  out  of  the  schoolroom,  she  contrasts 
with  her  last  one  in  public,  when  invited  by  the 
Duchess  of  Northumberland  to  dance  with  Lord 
George  Hill.  She  accepted  the  challenge  from  the 
two  best  jig  dancers  in  the  country,  Lord  George 
§nd  Sir  Philip  Crampton,  and  had  the  pleasure  of 
flooring  them  both.  Apropos  of  her  fondness  for 
jigs,  in  Fanny  Kemble's  Old  Woman's  Gossip,  you 
will  find  an  amusing  reminiscence. 

She  was  a  successful  teacher,  although  she  could 
not  restrain  her  love  of  fun.  Once,  indeed,  they 
threatened  to  write  to  her  father,  but  were  conquered 
by  an  evening  of  song. 

Her  father's  pride  rose  in  revolt  against  her  posi 
tion.  He  wished  to  place  her  under  the  protection 
of  some  purse-proud  cousins,  but  Sydney  rebelled. 
She  writes  to  dear  papa :  "A  humble  companion  I 
will  not  be  to  any  one.  I  could  never  walk  out  with 
little  dogs  or  run  little  messages.  What  objections 
can  you  have  to  my  occupying  the  position  of  a 
teacher,  a  calling  which  enrolls  the  names  of  Madame 
de  Maintenonand  Madame  de  Genlis."  And  she  kept 
her  place  and  her  self-respect. 

"  St.  Clair"  was  the  name  of  her  first  novel.  She 
had  kept  her  work  a  profoun  dsecret,  and  one  morn 
ing,  full  of  ambitious  dreams,  she  borrowed  the  cook's 
market  bonnet  and  cloak  and  sallied  out  to  seek  her 


Lady  Morgan  115 

fortune.  Before  going  far  she  saw  over  a  shop  door 
"  T.  Smith,  Printer  and  Bookseller/'  and  ventured  in. 
It  was  some  minutes  before  T.  Smith  made  his  ap 
pearance,  and  when  he  did  come  he  had  a  razor  in 
one  hand,  a  towel  in  the  other,  and  only  one  side  of 
his  face  shaved.  After  hearing  her  errand,  he  told 
he  did  not  publish  novels,  and  sent  her  to  Brown. 
Brown  wanted  his  breakfast  and  was  not  anxious  for 
a  girl's  manuscript,  but  his  wife  persuaded  him  to 
look  it  over,  and,  elated  with  success,  Sydney  ran 
home,  forgetting  to  leave  any  address,  and  never 
heard  of  her  first  venture  until,  taking  up  a  book  in  a 
friend's  parlor,  it  proved  to  be  her  own  !  It  had  a 
good  sale  and  was  translated  into  German,  with  a 
biographical  notice,  which  stated  that  the  young 
author  had  strangled  herself  with  an  embroidered 
handkerchief  in  an  agony  of  despair  and  unrequited 
love.  The  "  Sorrows  of  Werther  "  was  her  model,  but 
with  a  deal  of  stuff  and  sentimentality  there  was  the 
promise  of  better  things.  In  all  her  early  works  her 
characters  indulge  in  wonderful  digressions  ;  histor 
ical,  astronomical,  and  metaphysical,  in  the  midst  of 
terrible  emergencies  where  danger,  despair,  and  un 
speakable  catastrophes  are  imminent  and  impending. 
No  matter  what  laceration  of  their  finest  feelings  they 
may  be  suffering,  they  always  have  their  learning  at 
command  and  never  fail  to  make  quotations  from 
favorite  authors  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  ("St. 
Elmo"  resembles  this.) 

The  "Novice  of  St.  Dominick  "  was  Miss  Owenson's 


116  Lady  Morgan 

second  novel,  she  going  alone  to  London  to  arrange 
for  its  publication.  It  was  no  small  undertaking, 
and  when  the  coach  drove  into  the  yard  of  the  Swan 
with  Two  Necks,  the  young  lady  was  utterly  ex 
hausted,  and,  seating  herself  on  her  little  trunk  in  the 
inn  yard,  fell  fast  asleep.  But,  as  usual,  she  found 
friends  and  luck  was  on  her  side.  The  novel  was 
cut  from  six  volumes  to  four,  and  with  her  first  liter 
ary  earnings,  after  assisting  her  father,  she  bought 
an  Irish  harp  and  a  black  mode  cloak,  always  devoted 
to  music  and  dress. 

Next  came  "  The  Wild  Irish  Girl,"  her  first  na 
tional  story,  which  gave  her  more  than  a  national 
fame  and  £300  from  her  fascinated  publisher.  It 
contains  much  curious  .information  about  the  antiqui 
ties  and  social  condition  of  Ireland,  and  a  passionate 
pleading  against  the  wrongs  of  its  people.  It  made 
the  piquant  little  governess  all  the  rage  in  fash 
ionable  society,  and  until  her  marriage  she  was 
known  by  the  name  of  her  heroine  —  Glorvina.  As 
a  story  it  is  not  worth  reading  to-day.  In  the  "  Book 
of  the  Boudoir,"  a  sort  of  literary  rag-bag,  she  gives 
under  the  heading  "  My  First  Rout  in  London,"  a 
graphic  picture  of  an  evening  at  Lady  Cork's.  She 
says :  "  A  few  days  after  my  arrival  in  London  and 
while  my  little  book  was  running  rapidly  through 
successive  editions,  I  was  presented  to  the  Countess- 
dowager  of  Cork,  and  invited  to  a  reception  at  her 
fantastic  and  pretty  mansion  in  New  Burlington 
street.  Oh,  how  her  Irish  historical  name  tingled  in 


Lady  Morgan  117 

my  ears  and  seized  on  my  imagination,  reminding 
me  of  her  great  ancestor,  '  the  father  of  chemistry 
and  uncle  to  the  earl  of  Cork  ' !  I  stepped  into  my 
job  carriage  at  the  hour  of  ten,  and,  all  alone  by  my 
self,  as  the  song  says,  '  to  Eden  took  my  solitary 
way.'  What  added  to  my  fears  and  doubts  and  hopes 
and  embarrassments  was  a  note  from  my  noble 
hostess  received  at  the  moment  of  departure : 
'  Everybody  has  been  invited  expressly  to  meet  the 
Wild  Irish  Girl ;  so  she  must  bring  her  Irish  harp. 
M.  C.  O.'  I  arrived  at  New  Burlington  street  with 
out  my  harp  and  with  a  beating  heart,  and  I  heard 
the  high-s&unding  titles  of  princes  and  ambassadors 
and  dukes  and  duchesses  announced,  long  before  my 
poor  plebeian  name  puzz1ed  the  porter  and  was  ban 
died  from  footman  to  footman.  As  I  ascended  the 
marble  stairs  with  their  gilt  balustrade,  I  was  agitated 
by  emotions  similar  to  those  which  drew  from  a 
frightened  countryman  his  frank  exclamation  in  the 
heat  of  the  battle  of  Vittoria:  '  Oh,  jabbers!  I  wish 
some  of  my  greatest  enemies  was  kicking  me  down 
Dame  street.'  Lady  Cork  met  me  at  the  door: 
'  What !  no  harp,  Glorvina?'  — '  Oh,  Lady  Cork!  '- 
'  Oh,  Lady  Fiddlestick !  You  are  a  fool,  child  :  you 
don't  know  your  own  interests. —  Here,  James,  Wil 
liam,  Thomas !  send  one  of  the  chairmen  to  Stan 
hope  street  for  Miss  Owenson's  harp.'  ' 

After  a  stand  and  a  stare  of  some  seconds  at  a 
strikingly  sullen-looking,  handsome  creature  who 
stood  alone, '  and  whom  she  heard  addressed  by  a 


118  Lady  Morgan 

pretty  sprite  of  fashion  with  a  "  How-do,  Lord 
Byron  ? "  she  says  :  "  I  was  pushed  on,  and  on  reach 
ing  the  centre  of  the  conservatory,  I  found  myself 
suddenly  bounced  upon  a  sort  of  rustic  seat,  a  very 
uneasy  pre-eminence,  and  there  I  sat,  the  lioness  of 
the  night,  shown  off  like  the  hyena  of  Exeter 
'Change,  looking  almost  as  wild  and  feeling  quite  as 
savage.  Presenting  me  to  each  and  all  of  the  splen 
did  crowd  which  an  idle  curiosity,  easily  excited  and 
as  soon  satisfied,  had  gathered  round  us,  she  prefaced 
every  introduction  with  a  little  exordium  which 
seemed  to  amuse  every  one  but  its  object :  '  Lord 
Erskine,  this  is  the  Wild  Irish  Girl  whom  you  are 
so  anxious  to  know.  I  assure  you  she  talks  quite  as 
well  as  she  writes. —  Now,  my  dear,  do  tell  my  Lord 
Erskine  some  of  those  Irish  stories  you  told  us  the 
other  evening.  Fancy  yourself  among  your  own  set, 
and  take  off  the  brogue.  Mrs.  Abingdon  says  you 
would  make  a  famous  actress  ;  she  does  indeed.  You 
must  play  the  short-armed  orator  with  her ;  she  will 
be  here  by  and  by.  This  is  the  duchess  of  St. 
Albans :  she  has  your  novel  by  heart.  Where  is 
Sheridan  ?  —  Do,  my  dear  Mr.  T-  -  (This  is  Mr. 

T ,  my  dear :  geniuses  should  know  each  other) 

-  do,  my  dear  Mr.  T-  — ,  find  me  Mr.  Sheridan.  Oh  ! 
here  he  is !  —  What !  you  know  each  other  already  ? 
So  much  the  better. —  This  is  Lord  Carysford. —  Mr. 
Lewis,  do  come  forward. —  That  is  Monk  Lewis,  my 
dear,  of  whom  you  have  heard  so  much,  but  you 
must  not  read  his  works;  they  are  very  naughty.' 


Lady  Morgan  119 

Lewis,  who  stood  staring  at  me  through  his  eye 
glasses,  backed  out  after  this  remark,  and  disap 
peared.  '  You  know  Mr.  Gell,'  her  ladyship  contin 
ued,  '  so  I  need  not  introduce  you  ;  he  calls  you  the 
Irish  Corinne.  Your  friend  Mr.  Moore  will  be  here 
by  and  by  ;  I  have  collected  all  the  talent  for  you.— 
Do  see,  somebody,  if  Mr.  Kemble  and  Mrs.  Siddons 
are  come  yet,  and  find  me  Lady  Hamilton. —  Now, 
pray  tell  us  the  scene  at  the  Irish  baronet's  in  the 
rebellion,'  and  then  give  us  your  blue-stocking  dinner 
at  Sir  Richard  Phillips.  Here  is  Lord  L. —  he  will 
be  your  bottle  holder.' 

"Lord  L —  —volunteered  his  services.  The  circle 
now  began  to  widen  —  wits,  warriors,  peers,  and  min 
isters  of  state.  The  harp  was  brought  forward,  and 
I  tried  to  sing,  but  my  howl  was  funereal.  I  was 
ready  to  cry,  but  endeavored  to  laugh,  and  to  cover 
my  real  timidity  by  an  affected  ease  which  was  both 
awkward  and  impolitic.  At  last  Mr.  Kemble  was 
announced.  Lady  Corft  reproached  him  as  the  late 
Mr.  Kemble,  and  then,  looking  significantly  at  me, 
told  him  who  I  was.  Kemble  acknowledged  me  by 
a  kindly  nod,  but  the  stare  which  succeeded  was  not 
one  of  mere  recognition  ;  it  was  the  glazed,  fixed 
look  so  common  to  those  who  have  been  making  liba 
tions  to  altars  which  rarely  qualify  them  for  ladies' 
society.  Mr.  Kemble  was  evidently  much  preoccu 
pied  and  a  little  exalted.  He  was  seated  my  vis-a-vis 
at  supper,  and  repeatedly  raised  his  arm  and  stretched 
it  across  the  table  for  the  purpose,  as  I  supposed,  of 


120  Lady  Morgan 

helping  himself  to  some  boar's  head  in  jelly.  Alas  ! 
no  !  The  bore  was  that  my  head  happened  to  be  the 
object  which  fixed  his  tenacious  attention,  which, 
dark,  cropped  and  curly,  struck  him  as  a  particularly 
well-organized  '  Brutus,'  and  better  than  any  in  his 
repertoire  of  theatrical  perukes.  Succeeding  at  last 
in  his  feline  and  fixed  purpose,  he  actually  stuck 
his  claws  in  my  locks,  and,  addressing  me  in  the 
deepest  sepulchral  tones,  asked,  '  Little  girl,  where 
did  you  get  your  wig  ? '  Lord  Erskine  came  to  the 
rescue  and  liberated  my  head,  and  all  tried  to  re 
trieve  the  awkwardness  of  the  scene.  Meanwhile, 
Kemble,  peevish,  as  half-tipsy  people  generally  are, 
drew  back  muttering  and  fumbling  in  his  pocket, 
evidently  with  some  dire  intent  lowering  in  his  eyes. 
To  the  amusement  of  all,  and  to  my  increased  con 
sternation,  he  drew  forth  a  volume  of  the  Wild  Irish 
Girl,  and  reading  with  his  deep,  emphatic  voice  one 
of  the  most  high-flown  of  its  passages,  he  paused, 
and  patting  the  page  with  his  forefinger,  with  the 
look  of  Hamlet  addressing  Polonius,  he  said,  '  Little 
girl,  why  did  you  write  such  nonsense  ?  and  where 
did  you  get  all  those  damned  hard  words  ? '  Thus 
taken  by  surprise,  and  smarting  with  my  wounds  of 
mortified  authorship,  I  answered,  unwittingly  and 
witlessly,  the  truth :  '  Sir,  I  wrote  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  I  got  the  hard  words  from  —  Johnson's  Diction 
ary.'  He  was  soon  carried  off  to  prevent  any  more 
attacks  on  my  head,  inside  or  out." 

Lady  Cork  was  a  unique  character,  and  her  name 


Lady  Morgan  121 

suggests  several  anecdotes.  She  entertained  fre 
quently,  giving  parties  of  various  colors :  pink  for 
the  exclusives,  blue  for  the  literary,  gray  for  the 
religious,  and  her  pet  and  protege  suggested  dun- 
duketfry  mud  color  as  a  good  name  for  a  mixed 
crowd. 

On  a  pink  evening,  she  wore  such  an  enormous 
plume,  that  one  of  the  wits  present  compared  her  to 
a  shuttle-cock  —  all  Cork  and  feathers. 

At  a  dinner  where  this  eccentric  dowager  was 
the  only  lady  present,  she  said  to  Colman,  "  You  are 
so  agreeable  that  you  shall  drink  a  glass  of  cham 
pagne  with  me." 

"  Your  ladyship's  wishes  are  law  to  me,"  said 
Colman,  "  but  really,  champagne  does  not  agree  with 
me  :  "  upon  which,  Jekyll  called  out,  "  Faith,  Colman, 
you  seem  more  attached  to  the  cork  than  the  bottle." 

She  was  a  person  of  extraordinary  power  for 
making  herself  comfortable,  and  did  anything  that 
it  pleased  her  to  do  —  would  invite  a  number  of 
guests  to  dinner  at  a  friend's  house  before  telling 
said  friend  of  the  pleasure  in  store  for  him,  and 
would  make  use  of  a  friend's  carriage  without  asking 
permission.  Once,  on  leaving  a  breakfast  party,  she 
claimed  a  carriage  in  this  way ;  told  the  footman 
that  she  took  it  by  his  mistress's  orders  ;  kept  it  out 
the  whole  afternoon,  and  on  meeting  the  owner  ex 
claimed,  "  I  wish  you  would  have  the  steps  of  your 
carriage  lowered  before  I  use  it  again." 

Sydney  Smith  said  that  she  was  once  so  much 


122  Lady  Morgan 

affected  by  one  of  his  charity  sermons,  that  she  bor 
rowed  a  guinea  from  a  friend  to  put  in  the  plate. 

Darwin  tells  us  how  once,  when  dining  at  Dean 
Milman's,  Sydney  said,  "  It  is  generally  believed  that 
my  dear  old  friend,  Lady  Cork,  has  been  overlooked," 
and  he  said  this  in  such  a  manner  that  no  one  could, 
for  a  moment,  doubt  that  his  dear  old  friend  had 
been  overlooked  by  the  Devil. 

Glorvina  was  now  very  much  the  fashion,  visit 
ing  in  the  best  Dublin  society  and  making  many 
friends,  whom  she  had  the  tact  to  retain  through  life. 
When  articles  of  dress  or  ornament  are  named  for 
one,  it  is  an  unfailing  sign  that  they  have  attained 
notoriety,  if  not  fame,  and  the  bodkin  used  for  fas 
tening  the  "back  hair  "  was  called  "  Glorvina"  in  her 
honor.  Like  many  attractive  women  of  decided 
character,  she  had  her  full  share  of  faults  and  foibles. 
Superficial,  conceited,  sadly  lacking  in  spirituality 
and  refinement,  a  cruel  enemy,  a  toady  to  titles,  a 
blind  partisan  of  the  Liberal  party, —  that  is  her  pic 
ture  in  shadow.  Her  style  was  open  to  severe  criti 
cism,  and  Richard  Lovell  Edgeworth  suggests  mildly 
that  Maria,  in  reading  her  novel  aloud  in  the  family 
circle,  was  obliged  to  omit  some  superfluous  epithets. 

In  this  first  flush  of  celebrity  she  never  gave  up 
work,  holding  fast  to  industry  as  her  sheet-anchor. 
Soon  appeared  two  volumes  of  patriotic  tales.  "  Ida 
of  Athens"  was  Novel  No.  3,  but  written  in  confident 
haste,  and  not  well  received.  The  names  of  her 
books  would  make  a  list  rivaling  that  of  the  loves  of 


Lady  Morgan  123 

Don  Giovanni  (nearly  seventy  volumes),  and  any  ex 
tended  analysis  or  criticism  would  be  impossible  in 
this  rapid  sketch.  "  Every  day  in  my  life  is  a  leaf  in 
my  book,"  was  a  motto  literally  carried  out,  and  she 
tried  almost  every  department  of  literature,  succeed 
ing  best  in  describing  the  broad  characteristics  of  her 
own  nation.  "  Her  lovers,  like  her  books,  were  too 
numerous  to  mention,"  yet  her  own  heart  seemed 
untouched.  She  coquetted  gayly,  but  her  adorers 
were  always  the  sufferers. 

Sir  Jonah  Harrington  wrote  her  at  this  time  a 
complimentary  and  witty  letter,  in  which  he  says  of 
her  heroine  Glorvina,  "  I  believe  you  stole  a  spark 
from  heaven  to  give  animation  to  your  idol."  He 
thought  the  inferiority  of  "  Ida"  was  owing  to  its  au 
thor's  luxurious  surroundings.  "  I  cannot  conceive 
why  the  brain  should  not  get  fat  and  unwieldy,  as 
well  as  any  other  part  of  the  human  frame.  Some 
of  our  best  poets  have  written  in  paroxysms  of  hun 
ger,  and  I  really  believe  that  Addison  would  have 
had  more  point  if  he  had  had  less  victuals ;  and  if 
you  do  not  restrict  yourself  to  a  sheep's  trotter  and 
spruce  beer,  your  style  will  betray  your  luxury." 
But  soon  came  an  increase  of  the  very  thing  feared 
for  her  fame,  in  the  form  of  an  invitation  from 
Lady  Abercorn  and  the  marquis  to  pass  the  chief 
part  of  every  year  with  them.  This  was  accepted, 
and  thus  she  met  her  fate.  Lord  Abercorn  kept  a 
physician  in  his  house,  Doctor  Morgan,  a  handsome, 
accomplished  widower,  whom  the  marchioness  was 


124  Lady  Morgan 

anxious  to  provide  with  a  second  wife.  She  had 
fixed  upon  Sydney  as  a  suitable  person,  but  the  re 
tiring  and  reticent  doctor  had  heard  so  much  of  her 
wit,  talents,  and  general  fascination,  that  he  disliked 
the  idea  of  meeting  her.  He  was  sitting  one  morn 
ing  with  the  marchioness  when  a  servant  threw  open 
the  door,  announcing  "  Miss  Owenson,"  who  had 
just  arrived.  Dr.  Morgan  sprang  to  his  feet,  and, 
there  being  no  other  way  of  escape,  leaped  through 
the  open  window  into  the  garden  below.  This  was 
too  fair  a  challenge  for  a  girl  of  spirit  to  refuse,  and 
she  set  to  work  to  captivate  him,  succeeding  more 
effectually  than  she  desired,  for  she  had  dreamed  of 
making  a  brilliant  match.  Soon  a  letter  was  written 
to  her  father  asking  his  leave  to  marry  the  conquered 
doctor,  yet  she  does  not  seem  to  have  been  one  bit 
in  love.  He  was  too  grave  and  good,  though  as  de 
voted  a  lover  as  could  be  asked  for.  It  was  a  queer 
match  and  a  dangerous  experiment,  but  after  a  while, 
their  mutual  qualities  adjusted  themselves.  He 
kept  her  steady,  and  she  roused  him  from  indolent 
repose.  As  a  critic  of  that  time  says  :  "  She  was  as 
bustling,  restless,  energetic,  and  pushing  as  he  was 
modest,  retiring,  and  unaffected."  Lover  gives  this 
picture  of  them  :  "There  was  Lady  Morgan,  with  her 
irrepressible  vivacity,  her  humor  that  indulged  in 
the  most  audacious  illustrations,  and  her  candor 
which  had  small  respect  for  time  or  place  in  its  ex 
pression,  and  who,  by  the  side  of  her  tranquil,  steady, 
contemplative  husband,  suggested  the  notion  of  a 


Lady  Morgan  125 

Barbary  colt  harnessed  to  a  patient  English  draught- 
horse." 

She  had  a  certain  light,  jaunty  air  peculiarly 
Irish,  celebrated  by  Leigh  Hunt  in  verses  which  em 
body  a  faithful  portrait : 

"And  dear  Lady  Morgan,  see,  see  where  she  comes, 
With  her  pulses  all  beating  for  freedom  like  drums, 
So  Irish,  so  modish,  so  mixtish,  so  wild, 
So  committing  herself ,  as  she  talks,  like  a  child  ; 
So  trim,  yet  so  easy,  polite,  yet  high-hearted, 
That  Truth  and  she,  try  all  she  can,  won't  be  parted. 
She'll  put  on  your  fashions,  your  latest  new  air, 
Aud  then  talk  so  frankly,  she'll  make  you  all  stare. 
Mrs.  Hall  may  say  "  Oh  !  "   and  Miss  Edgeworth  say  "  Fie  !  " 
But  my  lady  will  know  the  what  and  the  why. 
Her  books,  a  like  mixture,  are  so  very  clever 
That  Jove  himself  swore  he  could  read  them  forever. 
Plot,  character,  freakishness,  all  are  so  good, 
And  the  heroine  herself  playing  tricks  in  a  hood." 

After  a  happy  year  with  her  patrons,  Glorvina 
married  and  moved  to  a  home  of  her  own  in  Kildare 
street,  Dublin,  whence  she  writes  to  Lady  Stanley : 
"  With  respect  to  authorship,  I  fear  it  is  over.  I 
have  been  making  chair-covers  instead  of  periods, 
hanging  curtains  instead  of  raising  systems,  and 
cheapening  pots  and  pans  instead  of  selling  senti 
ment  and  philosophy."  But  even  during  this  first 
busy  year  of  housekeeping  she  was  working  upon 
"  O'Donnel,"  another  national  tale,  for  which  she  was 
paid  five  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  It  was  highly 
praised  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  sold  with  rapidity, 
but  her  liberal  politics  made  her  unpopular  with  the 


126  Lady  Morgan 

leading  Tory  journalism  of  England.  In  point  of 
pitiless  invective  the  criticism  of  the  Quarterly  and 
Blackwood  has,  perhaps,  never  been  exceeded.  Her 
books  were  denounced  as  pestilent,  and  the  public 
advised  against  maintaining  her  acquaintance.  Miss 
Martineau,  an  impartial  critic,  if  impartiality  con 
sists  in  punching  almost  every  one  she  passed,  did 
not  fail  to  give  our  heroine  a  black  eye,  speaking  of 
her  as  "  in  that  set  to  which  Mrs.  Jameson  belonged, 
who  make  women  blush  and  men  grow  insolent." 

Sir  Charles  and  his  wife  next  visited  Paris  with 
the  intention  of  writing  a  book.  Their  letters  car 
ried  them  into  every  circle  of  Parisian  society,  "  in 
the  course  of  one  evening,  assisting  at  a  Royalist 
dinner,  drinking  ultra  tea,  and  supping  en  rcpubli- 
cainc."  And  in  each  the  popularity  of  Lady  Morgan 
was  unbounded.  Madame  Jerome  Bonaparte  wrote 
to  her :  "  The  French  admire  you  more  than  anyone 
who  has  appeared  here  since  the  battle  of  Waterloo 
in  the  form  of  an  Englishwoman."  When  "  France" 
appeared  the  clamor  of  abuse  in  England  was 
enough  to  appall  a  very  stout  heart.  John  Wilson 
Croker  was  one  of  her  most  bitter  assailants,  and 
attempted  to  annihilate  her  in  the  Quarterly.  She 
balanced  matters  by  caricaturing  him  as  "  Counsellor 
Crawley  "  in  her  next  novel,  in  a  way  that  hit  and 
hurt,  and  by  a  witticism  which  lives,  while  his  en 
venomed  sentences  are  forgotten.  Some  one  was 
telling  her  that  Croker  was  among  the  crowd  who 
thought  they  could  have  managed  the  battle  of 


Lady  Morgan  127 

Waterloo  much  better  than  Wellington,  whose  suc 
cess,  in  their  estimation,  was  only  a  fortunate  mis 
take.  She  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  I  can  believe  it.  He  had 
his  secret  for  winning  the  battle  ;  he  had  only  to  put 
his  "  Notes  on  Boswell's  Johnson  "  in  front  of  the 
British  lines,  and  all  the  Bonapartes  that  ever  existed 
could  never  have  got  through  tliem  !  "  Maginn  in  Black- 
wood  gave  unmerciful  cuts  at  her  superficial  opinions, 
ultra  sentiments,  and  chambermaid  French.  Frasers 
Magazine  complimented  her  sardonically  on  her  sim 
ple  style,  being  happy  to  observe  that  she  had  re 
duced  the  number  of  languages  used,  as  the  Sibyl 
did  her  books,  to  three,  wisely  discarding  German, 
Spanish,  the  dead  and  Oriental  languages.  But  she 
received  the  cannonade,  which  would  have  crushed 
some  women,  with  perfect  equanimity.  As  a  com 
pensation,  she  was  the  toast  of  the  day,  and  at  some 
grand  reception  had  a  raised  dais  only  a  little  lower 
than  that  provided  for  the  duchess  de  Berri.  At  a 
dinner  at  Baron  Rothschild's,  Careme,  the  Delmon- 
ico  of  those  times,  surprised  her  with  a  column  of 
ingenious  confectionery  architecture  on  which  was 
inscribed  her  name  spun  in  sugar.  It  was  a  more 
equivocal  compliment  when  Walter  Scott  christened 
two  pet  donkeys,  Hannah  More  and  Lady  Morgan. 
The  chapters  on  society  are  extremely  readable. 
She  tells  us  how  Robespierre,  during  the  most  san 
guinary  period  of  his  career,  wore  a  muslin  waist 
coat  lined  with  rose-colored  silk,  and  a  coat  of  the 
most  tender  blue.  Josephine  she  represents  as  ab- 


128  Lady  Morgan 

surdly  whimsical  about  her  toilettes.  "  I  am  very  ill 
to-day,"  she  said  one  morning.  "  Give  me  a  cap 
which  suggests  delicate  health."  This  style  was 
presented.  "  But  this  is  too  sick,  they  will  believe 
now  I  am  about  to  die."  A  more  healthy  head-dress 
was  presented  for  inspection.  "  And  now,"  said  the 
Empress,  with  a  languid  yawn,  "  And  now,  you  make 
me  too  robust." 

"Florence  Macarthy"  another  novel,  attacking 
the  social  and  political  abuses  in  Irish  government, 
was  her  next  work.  Colburn,  her  publisher,  who  had 
just  presented  her  with  a  beautiful  parure  of  ame 
thysts,  now  proposed  that  she  and  her  husband 
should  go  to  Italy.  "  Do  it,  and  get  up  another  book 
—  the  lively  lady  to  sketch  men  and  manners,  the 
metaphysical  balance  wheel  contributing  the  solid 
chapters  on  laws,  politics,  science,  and  education." 
They  accepted  the  offer,  and  received  the  same  extra 
ordinary  attention  as  in  their  former  tour,  arid  her 
picture  was  displayed  in  shop  windows.  This  may 
be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  it  was  well  known 
that  they  were  to  prepare  a  book  on  Italy.  It  was 
equally  well  known  that  Lady  Morgan  had  a  sharp 
tongue  and  still  sharper  pen ;  so  that  people  who 
lived  in  glass  houses,  as  did  many  of  the  magnates, 
were  remarkably  civil  to  "  Miladi,"  even  those  who 
regarded  her  tour  among  them  as  an  unjustifiable 
invasion.  "  Byron  pronounced  this  book  an  excellent 
and  fearless  work.  During  her  sojourn  in  Italy, 
Lady  Morgan  became  enthusiastic  about  Salvator 


Lady  Morgan  129 

Rosa,  and  began  to  collect  material  for  writing  the 
history  of  his  life  and  times,  which  was  her  own  fa 
vorite  of  all  her  writings." 

In  1825  the  "Dairy"  is  started,  chatty,  full  of 
gossip  and  incident.  She  writes,  October  3Oth  :  "  A 
ballad-singer  was  this  morning  singing  beneath  my 
window,  in  a  strain  most  unmusical  and  melancholy. 
My  own  name  caught  my  ear,  and  I  sent  Thomas 
out  to  buy  the  song.  Here  is  a  stanza: 

"  '  Och,  Dublin  City,  there's  no  doubting, 

Bates  every  city  upon  the  say  ; 
'Tis  there  you'll  hear  O'Connell  spouting, 

And  Lady  Morgan  making  tay  ; 
For  'tis  the  capital  of  the  foinest  nation, 

Wid  charming  pisantry  on  a  fruitful  sod, 
Fighting  like  divils  for  conciliation, 
An'  hating  one  another  for  the  love  o'  God.'  " 

"The  O'Briens  and  O '  Flaherty  s  "  was  published 
in  1827,  and  proved  more  popular  than  any  of  her 
previous  novels.  There  is  an  allusion  to  it  in  the 
interesting  account  which  Lord  Albemarle  gives  us 
of  his  acquaintance  with  Lady  Morgan  :  "  A  number 
of  pleasant  people  used  to  assemble  of  an  evening  in 
Lady  Morgan's  '  nut-shell '  in  Kildare  street.  When 
I  first  met  her  she  was  in  the  height  of  her  popularity. 
In  her  new  novel  she  tells  me  I  am  to  figure  as  a 
certain  count,  a  great  traveler  who  made  a  trip  to 
Jerusalem  for  the  sole  object  of  eating  artichokes  in 
their  native  country.  The  chief  attraction  in  the 
Kildare  street  '  at  homes '  was  her  sister  Olivia  (Lady 
Clark),  who  used  to  compose  and  sing  charming 


130  Lady  Morgan 

Irish  songs,  for  the  most  part  squibs  on  the  Dublin 
society  of  the  day.     One  of  the  verses  ran  thus  : 

"  We're  swarming  alive, 
Like  bees  in  a  hive, 

With  talent  and  janius  and  beautiful  ladies  ; 
We've  a  duke  in  Kildare, 
And  a  Donnybrook  Fair  ; 

And  if  that  wouldn't  plaze,  why  nothing  would  plaze  yez. 
We've  poets  in  plenty. 
But  not  one  in  twenty 

Will  stay  in  ould  Ireland  to  keep  her  from  sinking. 
They  say  they  can't  live 
Where  there's  nothing  to  giv». 

Och,  what  business  have  poets  with  ating  or  dhrinking  !  " 

Justly  proud  of  her  sister,  Lady  Morgan  was  in 
the  habit  of  addressing  every  new  comer  with,  "  I 
must  make  you  acquainted  with  my  -Livy."  She 
once  used  this  form  of  words  to  a  gentleman  who 
had  just  been  worsted  in  a  fierce  encounter  of  wit 
with  the  fascinating  lady.  "  Yes,  madam,"  he  replied, 
"  I  happen  to  know  your  Livy,  and  I  only  wish  'your 
Livy '  was  Tacitus." 

Few  of  Lady  Morgan's  bon-mots  have  been  pre 
served,  but  one  is  given  which  shows  that  she  occa 
sionally  indulged  in  a  pun.  Some  one,  speaking  of 
a  certain  bishop  who  was  rather  lax  in  his  observance 
of  Lent,  said  he  believed  he  would  eat  a  horse  on 
Ash  Wednesday.  "  Very  suitable  diet,"  remarked 
her  ladyship,  "  if  it  were  a.  fast  horse." 

The  "  Diary "  progresses  slowly  by  fitful  jerks. 
Here  is  a  characteristic  entry  :  "  April  j,  1834..  My 
journal  has  gone  to  the  dogs.  I  am  so  fussed  and 


Lady  Morgan  131 

fidgeted  with  my  dear  charming  world,  that  I  can 
not  write  ;  I  forget  days  and  dates.  Ouf  !  last  night, 
at  Lady  Stepney's,  met  the  Milmans,  Mrs.  Norton, 
Rogers,  Sydney  Smith,  and  others ;  among  them, 
poor,  dear  Jane  Porter.  She  told  me  she  was  taken 
for  me  the  other  night,  and  talked  to  as  such  by  a 
party  of  Americans.  She  is  tall,  lank,  and  lean,  and 
lackadaisical,  dressed  in  the  deepest  black,  with 
rather  a  battered  black  gauze  hat  and  the  air  of  a 
regular  Melpomene.  /  am  the  reverse  of  all  this, 
and,  without  vanity,  the  best-dressed  woman  wher 
ever  I  go.  Last  night,  I  wore  a  blue  satin  trimmed 
fully  with  magnificent  point  lace  —  light  blue  velvet 
hat  and  feather,  with  an  aigrette  of  sapphires  and 
diamonds.  Voila  !  Lord  Jeffrey  came  up  to  me,  and 
we  had  sucJi  a  flirtation  !  When  he  comes  to  Ireland 
we  are  to  go  to  Donnybrook  Fair  together  ;  in  short, 
having  cut  me  down  with  his  tomahawk  as  a  reviewer, 
he  smothers  me  with  roses  as  a  man.  I  always  say 
of  my  enemies  before  we  meet,  '  Let  me  at  them  !  ' ' 
Of  the  same  soiree  she  writes  again :  "  There  was 
Miss  Jane  Porter,  looking  like  a  shabby  canoness. 
There  was  Mrs.  Somerville  in  an  astronomical  cap. 
I  dashed  in  in  my  blue  satin  and  point  lace,  and 
showed  them  how  an  authoress  should  dress." 

Her  conceit  was  fairly  colossal.  The  reforms  in 
legislation  for  Ireland  were,  in  her  estimation,  owing 
to  her  novel  of  "  Florence  Macarthy."  She  professed 
to  have  taught  Taglicgii  the  Irish  jig.  Of  her  toilette, 
made  largely  by  her  own  hands,  she  was  comically 


132  Lady  Morgan 

vain.  In  "  The  Fraserians,"  a  charming  off-hand  de 
scription  of  the  contributors  to  that  magazine,  Lady 
Morgan  is  depicted  trying  on  a  big,  showy  bonnet 
before  a  mirror  with  a  funny  mixture  of  satisfaction 
and  anxiety  as  to  the  effect. 

Chorley,  the  feared  and  fearless  critic  of  the 
Athetuzum,  speaks  of  Lady  Morgan  as  one  of  the 
most  peculiar  and  original  literary  characters  he 
ever  met.  After  a  long  and  searching  analysis  he 
adds :  "  However  free  in  speech,  she  never  shocked 
decorum  —  never  had  to  be  appealed  or  apologized 
for  as  a  forlorn  woman  of  genius  under  difficulties." 
"  A  compound  of  the  most  startling  contradictions, 
impossible  to  be  overlooked  or  forgotten,  though 
possible  to  be  described  in  two  ways,  both  true,  yet 
the  one  diametrically  opposed  to  the  other.  Her 
life,  were  it  truly  told,  would  be  one  of  the  most  sin 
gular  contributions  to  the  history  of  gifted  woman 
that  the  world  has  ever  seen." 

An  American  paper,  the  Boston  Literary  Gazette, 
gave  a  personal  description  which  was  not  sufficiently 
flattering,  and  roused  the  lady's  indignant  comments. 
It  dared  to  state  that  she  was  "  short,  with  a  broad 
face,  blue,  inexpressive  eyes,  and  seemed,  if  such  a 
thing  may  be  named,  about  forty  years  of  age." 
Imagine  the  sensations  this  paragraph  produced  ! 
She  at  once  retorted,  exclaiming  in  mock  earnest,  "  I 
appeal !  I  appeal  to  the  Titian  of  his  age  and  coun 
try  —  I  appeal  to  you,  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence.  Would 
you  have  painted  a  short,  squat,  broad-faced,  inex- 


Lady  Morgan  133 

pressive,  affected,  Frenchified,  Greenland-seal-like 
lady  of  any  age?  Would  any  money  have  tempted 
you  to  profane  your  immortal  pencil,  consecrated  by 
nature  to  the  Graces,  by  devoting  its  magic  to  such 
a  model  as  this  described  by  the  Yankee  artist  of  the 
Boston  Literary?  And  yet,  you  did  paint  the  picture 
of  this  Lapland  Venus  —  this  impersonation  of  a 
Dublin  Bay  Codfish !  .  .  .  Alas !  no  one  could 
have  said  that  I  was  forty  then  ;  and  this  is  the  cruel- 
est  cut  of  all !  Had  it  been  thirty-nine  or  fifty ! 
Thirty-nine  is  still  under  the  mark,  and  fifty  so  far 
beyond  it,  so  hopeless  ;  but  forty —  the  critical  age, 
the  Rubicon  —  I  cannot,  will  not,  dwell  on  it.  But, 
O  America !  land  of  my  devotion  and  my  idolatry  ! 
is  it  from  you  the  blow  has  come  ?  Let  Quarterly 
and  Blackivoods  libel,  but  the  Boston  Literary  !  Et  tu 
Brute!  " 

In  1837  she  received  a  pension  of  three  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  a  handsome  recognition  of  her  liter 
ary  merits,  and  entirely  unsolicited. 

And  in  '39  she  published  a  book  entitled,  "  Woman 
and  Her  Master,"  solid  and  dull.  She  endeavored  to 
prove  that  woman  is  composed  of  finer  clay  than 
man,  or  is  rather  a  bit  of  precious  porcelain.  And  a 
masculine  critic  says :  "  The  lady,  having  all  the  talk 
to  herself,  rides  to  the  end  upon  a  gently  undulating 
wave  of  triumph." 

One  more  peep  into  her  diary  : 

"  Moore  looked  very  old  and  bald,  but  still  retains 
his  cock-sparrow  air.  He  was  very  pleasant  but 


134  Lady  Morgan 

rather  egotistical  and  shallow.  He  exclaimed  bit 
terly  against  writing-women,  even  against  the  beau 
tiful  Mrs.  Norton. 

"  '  In  short,'  said  he,  '  a  writing-woman  is  one 
unsexed,'  but  suddenly  recollecting  himself,  and 
pointing  at  me,  said  to  my  sister,  '  except  her'  " 

August  i  gth. 

"  My  soiree  very  fine.  Learned,  scientific,  and 
tiresome.  Fifty  philosophers  passed  through  my 
little  salon  last  night.  My  sister,  Lady  Clark,  made 
a  song  about  them,  which  she  sang  to  the  amuse 
ment  of  all." 

In  December,  1846,  she  writes:  ''  I  dare  not  trust 
myself  to  chronicle  my  feelings  as  to  passing  years. 
To  forget  is  my  philosophy  ;  to  hope  would  be  my 
insanity  ;  to  endure,  and  that  I  can,  is  my  system. 
I  am  grateful  for  the  good  I  yet  enjoy ;  to  be  so,  is 
my  religion." 

In  1850,  she  thoroughly  enjoyed  a  sharp  pen-to- 
pen  encounter  with  Cardinal  Wiseman  on  a  state 
ment  made  in  her  Italy.  She  writes :  "  Lots  of 
notices  and  notes  of  my  letter  to  Cardinal  Wiseman. 
It  has  had  the  run  of  all  the  newspapers.  The  little 
old  woman  lives  still." 

Lady  Morgan  had  vanity,  but  it  was  a  vanity  so 
quaint  and  sparkling,  so  unlike  in  its  frank  honesty 
to  all  other  vanities  that  it  became  absolutely  a 
charm. 

"  I  am  vain,"  she  once  said  to  Mrs.  Hall,  "  but  I 
have  a  right  to  be  so.  Look  at  the  number  of  books 


Lady  Morgan  135 

I  have  written  (over  70).  Have  I  not  been  ordered 
to  leave  a  kingdom  and  refused  to  obey  ?  Did  ever 
woman  move  in  a  brighter  sphere  than  I  do  ?  My 
dear,  I  have  three  invitations  to  dinner  to-day.  One 
from  a  duchess,  another  from  a  countess,  a  third 
from  a  diplomatist.  What  am  I  ?  A  pensioned 
scribbler !  Yet  I  am  given  gifts  that  queens  might 
covet." 

Horace  Smith,  the  wit  and  poet,  was  a  frequent 
and  delighted  as  well  as  delightful  guest  of  Lady 
Morgan's. 

Once  when  invited  to  visit  her  he  was  suffering 
from  an  acute  attack  of  bronchitis,  and  sent  with  his 
regrets  the  following  doggerel : 

"  O  dear  Lady  Morgan,  this  pain  in  the  organ 
Of  sound,  that  the  doctors  call  larynx, 
Is  a  terrible  baulk  to  my  walk  and  my  talk, 
While  my  pen  its  extremity  ne'er  inks. 
Tho'  I  know  its  not  sage,  I'm  transported  with  rage, 
Cause  I  can't  be  transported  to  Sydney. 

"  When  my  daughters  come  back  from  your  dwelling,  alack  ! 
What  lots  of  facetiae  they  can  tell  us  ! 
While  /within  clutch  of  a  feast  I  can't  touch, 
Am  condemned  to  the  tortures  of  Tantalus  ! 
When  last  you  came  here,  you  had  illness  severe, 
Now  /  must  call  in  the  physician-. 

We  would  meet,  but  the  more  we're  disposed  (what  a  bore) 
The  greater  our  indisposition  ! 

"  O  Morgans  and  Fate,  do  not  bother  my  pate, 
With  this  Fata  Morgt.na  probations  ; 
If  ye  can't  make  me  well,  rob  Sir  Charles  of  his  spell, 
And  his  wife  of  her  rare  fascinations." 


136  Lady  Morgan 

In  Ireland,  at  the  vice- regal  drawing-rooms  of  the 
Marchioness  Wellesley,  Lady  Morgan  frequently 
figured.  "Here,"  writes  one,  "here  it  was  that  I 
saw  Lady  Morgan  for  the  first  time,  and  as  I  had 
long  pictured  her  to  my  imagination  as  a  sylph-like 
person,  nothing  could  equal  my  astonishment  when 
the  celebrated  authoress  stood  before  me.  She  cer 
tainly  formed  a  strange  figure  in  the  midst  of  that 
dazzling  scene  of  beauty  and  splendor.  Every  lady 
present  wore  feathers  and  trains,  but  Lady  Morgan 
scorned  both  appendages.  Hardly  more  than  four 
feet  high,  with  a  slightly  curved  spine,  uneven 
shoulders  and  eyes,  she  glided  about  in  a  close- 
cropped  wig  bound  by  fillet  or  solid  band  of  gold, 
her  face  all  animation  and  with  a  witty  word  for 
everybody." 

Mrs.  Kemble  thought  her  a  clever,  vain,  lively, 
good-natured  woman.  She  says,  "  My  relations  with 
the  lively,  amusing  authoress  consisted  merely  in  an 
exchange  of  morning  visits,  during  one  of  which  she 
plied  me  with  a  breathless  series  of  pressing  invita 
tions  to  breakfasts,  luncheons,  dinners,  evening 
parties,  to  meet  everybody  that  I  did  not  know,  and 
upon  my  declining  all  these  offers  of  hospitable 
entertainment,  for  I  had  at  that  time  withdrawn 
myself  entirely  from  society,  and  went  nowhere,  she 
exclaimed,  "  But  what  in  the  world  do  you  do  with 
yourself  in  the  evening?  " 

"  Sit  with  my  father,  or  remain  alone." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  society-loving  little  lady,  with  an 


Lady  Morgan  137 

exasperated  Irish  accent,  "  Come  out  of  that  sphare 
of  solitary  self-sufficiency  ye  live  in,  do  !  "  which  ob- 
iurgation  certainly  presented  in  a  most  ludicrous 
light  my  life  of  very  sad  seclusion,  and  sent  us 
both  into  fits  of  laughter. 

In  1828,  O'Connell  paid  a  graceful  tribute  to  the 
achievements  of  Lady  Morgan.  "  To  Irish  female 
talent  and  patriotism  we  owe  much.  There  is  one 
name  consecrated  by  a  generous  devotion  to  the 
best  interests  of  Ireland  —  a  name  sacred  to  the 
cause  of  liberty  and  of  everything  —  great,  virtuous, 
or  patriotic ;  the  name  of  an  illustrious  woman,  who 
has  suffered  unmanly  persecution  for  her  talented 
and  chivalrous  adherence  to  her  native  land." 

"  It  is  to  me  delightful,"  writes  Sir  Jonah  Bar- 
rington,  "  to  see  a  woman  solely  by  the  force  of  her 
own  natural  talent,  succeed  triumphantly  in  the  line 
of  letters  she  has  adopted,  and  in  despite  of  the  most 
virulent,  illiberal,  and  unjust  attacks  ever  yet  made 
on  any  author  by  mercenary  reviewers." 

Chorley,  the  feared  and  fearless  critic  of  the 
Athenaeum,  speaks  of  Lady  Morgan  as  one  of  the 
most  peculiar  and  original  literary  characters  he  ever 
met. 

"  A  composition  of  natural  genius,  acquired 
accomplishments,  audacity,  that  flew  at  the  highest 
game,  shrewd  thought ;  and  research  at  once  intel 
ligent  and  superficial ;  personal  coquetries  and 
affectations  balanced  by  sincere  and  strenuous  fam 
ily  affection ;  extreme  liberality  of  opinions,  relig- 


138  Lady  Morgan 

ious  and  political;  extremely  narrow  literary  sym 
pathies,  united  with  a  delight  in  all  the  most  tinsel 
pleasures,  and  indulgent  of  the  most  inane  aristo 
cratic  society  ;  a  genial  love  for  art,  limited  by  the 
most  inconceivable  prejudices  of  ignorance ;  in 
brief,  a  compound  of  the  most  startling  contradic 
tions  impossible  to  be  overlooked  or  forgotten, 
though  possible  to  be  described  in  two  ways,  both 
true,  yet  the  one  diametrically  opposed  to  the  other." 

Her  life,  were  it  truly  told,  would  be  one  of  the 
most  singular  contributions  to  the  history  of  gifted 
woman  that  the  world  has  ever  seen. 

However  free  in  speech  she  never  shocked 
decorum  —  never  had  to  be  appealed  or  apologized 
for  as  a  forlorn  woman  of  genius  under  difficulties. 

The  closing  chapters  of  any  biography  must  of 
necessity  be  sad ;  friends  falling  to  the  grave  like 
autumn  leaves. 

First  her  beloved  husband,  then  her  darling  sis 
ter  Olivia,  and  her  journal  she  now  calls  her  "  Dooms 
day  Book." 

December  25,  1858,  was  Lady  Morgan's  last  birth 
day.  "  She  assembled  a  few  old  friends  at  dinner 
and  did  the  honor,  with  all  the  brilliancy  of  her  best 
days.  She  told  stories  with  infinite  finesse  and  droll 
ery,  and  after  dinner  sang  a  broadly  comic  song, 
which  she  said  must  be  good,  as  it  was  written 
by  a  church  dignitary,  so  she  gave  from  Father 
Prout  'The  Night  before  Larry  was  Stretched.'  It 
was  a  custom  of  those  days  to  wake  a  man,  who  was 


Lady  Morgan  139 

to  be  {hung,  the  night  before  his  execution,  so  the 
poor  lad  might  enjoy  the  whisky  drank  in  his 
honor." 

There  was  one  book  more,  positively  the  last, 
"The  Odd  Volume,"  but  she  never  gave  up  her  pen, 
that  "worn-out  stump  of  a  goose-quill"  until  her 
physician  literally  took  it  from  her  fingers. 

She  grew  old  gracefully,  showing  great  kindness 
to  young  authors,  enduring  partial  blindness  and 
comparative  neglect  with  dignity  and  cheerfulness. 
Her  heart  was  always  young. 

Some  one  writes :  "  The  last  time  we  saw  the 
'  Wild  Irish  Girl '  she  was  seated  on  a  couch  in  her 
bedroom  as  pretty  and  picturesque  a  ruin  of  old-lady 
womankind  as  ever  we  looked  upon  ;  her  black  silk 
dressing-gown  fell  round  her  petite  form,  which 
seemed  so  fragile  that  we  feared  to  see  her  move. 
We  recalled  to  memory  Maria  Edgeworth,  having 
believed  her  to  be  the  smallest  great  woman  in  the 
world,  but  Lady  Morgan  seemed  not  half  her  size." 

Another  says :  "  Everything  in  her  room  was 
artistic,  and  you  might  have  imagined  yourself  in 
the  presence  of  Mad.  de  Genlis,  feeling  that  after  the 
passing  away  of  that  small  form,  which  enshrined 
so  much  vitality  and  so  large  and  expansive  a  mind, 
the  last  link  between  us  and  the  Atkins,  the  Bar- 
baulds,  the  D'Arblays  would  be  gone." 

She  met  death  patiently  and  with  unfailing  cour 
age  rather  than  religious  resignation  on  the  evening 
of  the  1 6th  of  April,  1859. 


140  Lady  Morgan 

Deference  to  her  sensitiveness  prevents  any  allu 
sion  to  her  age. 

"  She  lived  through  the  love,  admiration,  and  ma 
lignity  of  three  generations  of  men  and  was,  in  short, 
a  literary  Ninon,  as  brisk  and  captivating  in  1859  as 
when  George  was  Prince  and  the  author  of  '  Kate 
Kearney'  divided  the  laureateship  of  society  and 
song  with  Tom  Moore,"  one  of  the  most  popular  and 
best  abused  writers  of  her  time.  No  one  reads  her 
now.  Why  do  I  resurrect  her  ?  Because  she  was 
such  a  charming  personality,  industrious,  cheerful, 
lovable,  womanly  ;  making  the  most  and  the  best  of 
her  life  according  to  her  convictions.  And  because, 
as  I  read  her  life,  and  moralized  over  the  hosts  of 
ambitious  men  and  women  who  wrote  so  much  and 
so  well,  and  are  almost  unknown,  she  seemed  to 
stand  at  my  elbow,  merry,  but  eager,  and  shaking 
her  fan,  she  whispered,  "  Tell  your  friends  all  about 
me,  that's  a  darling.  Give  me  one  more  chance  to 
be  heard  of  in  your  beautiful  broad  America."  So  I 
offer  this  pen  photograph  of  Sydney,  Lady  Morgan. 


CHRISTOPHER  NORTH  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 


I  devote  this  hour  with  special  pleasure  to  John 
Wilson  —  grand  old  lion  of  the  North  ;  with  the 
body  of  an  athlete,  the  brain  of  a  genius,  the  heart  of 
a  woman  ;  as  remarkable  as  a  pugilist,  pedestrian, 
sportsman  as  for  his  literary  criticisms,  sketches  of 
Scottish  life,  and  logical  eloquent  lectures  on  moral 
philosophy. 

Oh  for  the  power  to  bring  the  man  before  you  as 
he  was,  of  commanding  stature,  with  the  brow  and 
features  of  a  god,  clear  blue  eyes,  a  wonderfully  mo 
bile  face,  locks  of  the  true  keltic  yellow  floating  over 
his  broad  shoulders,  the  embodiment  and  ideal  of 
vigorous  manhood. 

"  You  are  a  man  !  "  said  Napoleon,  when  he  first 
saw  Goethe.  So  exclaimed  strangers  as  they  passed 
Wilson  on  the  street.  Walter  Scott  is  supposed  to 
have  depicted  him  in  his  sketch  of  Richard  the  Lion- 
hearted.  He  certainly  fulfilled  Emerson's  idea  that 
it  is  the  first  duty  of  every  man  to  be  a  splendid  ani 
mal,  anticipating  Gail  Hamilton's  flattering  state 
ment  :  "  There  is  nothing  so  splendid  as  a  splendid 
man."  He  has  always  been  one  of  my  heroes,  and 
although  the  rose-color  and  glamor  which  surrounded 
him  in  childish  days  is  dimmed,  so  that  I  can  see  his 
faults,  there  is  still  a  wondrous  charm  connected 
with  his  name. 


142  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

Such  enthusiasm,  such  strong  personal  magnet 
ism,  is  incapable  of  oblivion.  I  know  that  at  the 
last,  his  mind  and  body  failed  —  that  like  other  men, 
he  died  and  was  buried ;  but,  to  me,  he  is  still  in  the 
prime  of  life,  never  old,  never  changed. 

I  think  about  him,  read  about  him,  picture  him, 
till  he  glows  a  living  being  beside  me.  Up  to  his 
neck  in  water,  fishing ;  or  running,  leaping,  wrest 
ling,  rowing,  and  excelling  in  all ;  delighting  the 
students  in  Edinburgh  University ;  an  odd  successor 
to  Dugald  Stewart  and  Dr.  Brown,  a  victorious  rival 
of  Sir  William  Hamilton  ;  walking  with  his  wife  over 
the  hills  of  Scotland,  chatting  and  chaffing  with  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd  at  Ambrose  Tavern  ;  boating  on 
the  Windemere ;  "  laboring  in  his  study  when  the 
fever  of  composition  was  upon  him,  upon  poem, 
essay,  or  story,  his  eyes  gleaming  like  a  panther's,  his 
unkempt  beard  adding  a  grim  wild  force  to  his  ex 
pression,  the  whole  effect  that  of  '  an  inspired 
buffalo  ' ;  spending  several  weeks  with  a  camp  of 
Gypsies  ;  riding  in  mad  chase  after  a  neighbor's  bull, 
at  half-past  two  on  a  summer's  morning,  with  a 
couple  of  jolly  friends,  all  armed  with  immense 
spears  fourteen  feet  long  ;  leaping  in  rivalry  with 
some  tinkers  who  had  pitched  their  tents  by  the 
roadside  ;  playing  the  waiter  at  an  inn  table  at  mid 
night,  half  for  the  frolic,  half  to  study  character  ; 
holding  the  hand  and  closing  the  eyes  of  his  faithful 
old  servant,  Billy  Balmer,  who  had  come  from  far  to 
die  near  him,  or  sitting  by  the  bedside  of  an  old 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  143 

woman,  long  an  inmate  of  his  home,  arranging  her 
pillows  with  awkward  but  gentle  hand  or  reading 
her  favorite  verses  in  the  Bible  ;  petting  a  hapless 
sparrow  ;  pampering  and  feeding  no  less  than  sixty- 
two  game  cocks  in  his  back  yard,  with  a  hospital  for 
the  invalids  in  an  attic. 

Twisting  a  whip  from  the  fist  of  a  brutal  carter, 
who  was  cruelly  beating  his  horse,  and  placing  the 
wretched  animal  in  better  control  than  that  of  its 
owner,  leading  the  venerable,  raw-boned  quadruped 
through  the  fashionable  streets  of  Edinburgh,  an 
act  which  required  moral  courage.  And  courage  he 
never  lacked  in  things  great  or  small.  A  passionate 
lover  of  nature,  a  despiser  of  shams.  "  Intolerant  to 
no  one  but  quacks  and  cockneys,"  erratic,  preju 
diced,  intense,  affectionate,  truthful,  do  you  not  see 
him?  The  brawny-chested,  broad-shouldered,  fire- 
eyed,  lofty-browed,  sunny-faced,  sunny-hearted,  Kit 
North !  His  name  scarcely  appears  in  our  text 
books  on  English  literature.  His  works  are  not 
generally  known  in  this  country,  but  the  few  who 
do  appreciate  his  power  and  versatility,  his  humor, 
pathos,  satire,  wit  and  tenderness,  wisdom  and  elo 
quence,  value  him  as  a  tried  and  intimate  friend,  and 
find  in  the  "  Noctes  "  an  unfailing  fountain  of  delight. 

The  Shepherd  knew  what  he  was  talking  about 
when  he  said  to  Christopher  —  "  Listenin'  to  you,  sir, 
is  like  lookin'  into  a  well ;  at  first  ye  think  it  clear,  but 
no  verra  deep,  but  ye  let  drop  in  a  peeble  and  what 
a  length  o'  time  ere  the  air-bells  come  up  to  the  sur 
face  frae  the  profoond." 


144  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

In  Scotland  he  is  remembered  and  read,  not  as 
Scott  and  Burns,  but  first  in  the  rank  just  after 
them  —  remembered  with  affection,  enthusiasm,  and 
respect. 

Look  first  at  John  Wilson  as  a  beautiful  child, 
full  of  life  and  fun,  fond  of  angling  when  but  a 
baby.  He  was  only  three  years  old  when  he  ram 
bled  off  one  day,  armed  with  a  willow  wand  duly 
furnished  with  a  thread  line  and  crooked  pin,  to  fish 
in  a  "  wee  burnie "  of  which  he  had  taken  note, 
away  a  good  mile  from  home.  Unknown  to  anyone, 
the  adventurer  sallied  forth  for  a  "  solitary  cast  "  to 
spend  a  day  of  delight  by  the  rippling  stream,  with 
what  success  we  find  recorded  in  Fytte  First  of 
Christopher  in  his  sporting  jacket. 

"A  tug  —  a  tug!  With  face  ten  times  flushed 
and  pale  by  turns  ere  you  could  count  ten,  he  has  at 
last  strength  in  the  agitation  of  his  fear  and  joy  to 
pull  away  at  the  monster,  and  there  he  lies  in  his 
beauty  among  the  gowans  and  the  greensward,  for 
he  has  whapped  him  right  over  his  head  and  far 
away  —  a  fish  a  quarter  of  an  ounce  in  weight,  and,  at 
the  very  least,  two  inches  long !  Off  he  flies  on 
wings  of  wind  to  his  father,  mother,  and  sisters  and 
brothers  and  cousins,  and  all  the  neighborhood, 
holding  the  fish  aloft  in  both  hands,  still  fearful  of 
its  escape,  and  like  a  genuine  child  of  corruption,  his 
eyes  brighten  at  the  first  blush  of  cold  blood  on  his 
small  puny  fingers.  He  carries  about  with  him, 
upstairs  and  downstairs,  his  prey  upon  a  plate,  and 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  145 

will  not  wash  his  hands,  for  he  exults  in  the  silver 
scales  adhering  to  the  thumb-nail  that  scooped  out 
the  pin." 

While  the  future  Christopher  was  asserting  him 
self  out  of  doors,  the  "  professor  "  was  displaying  his 
capacity  in  the  nursery. 

His  sisters  looked  up  to  him,  and  admired  and 
wondered,  as  standing  upon  a  chair  he  would  address 
them  and  the  servants.  One  sermon  he  was  often 
called  on  to  repeat,  with  this  text :  "  There  was  a 
fish,  and  it  was  a  de'il  o'  a  fish,  and  it  was  ill  to  its 
young  anes."  In  this  allegory  he  displayed  pathos, 
humor,  and  oratorical  power.  He  was  also  remark 
able  for  his  drawings,  especially  of  animals. 

A  tiger,  full  of  crouching  life,  just  ready  to 
spring,  was  exhibited  by  his  mother  to  admiring 
guests. 

This  precocious  boy,  unlike  many  geniuses,  was 
foremost  in  the  playground,  king  of  all  sports, 
throwing  his  whole  energy  into  either  study  or  play, 
a  favorite  with  everyone. 

Always  intensely  susceptible  to  grief  or  gladness, 
his  first  real  sorrow  was  the  death  of  his  sister.  He 
was  borne  from  her  grave  death-like,  and  wishing  to 
die.  And  in  his  twelfth  year  he  lost  his  father. 
"  As  he  stood  at  the  head  of  the  grave  and  heard  the 
dull  earth  rattling  over  the  coffin,  his  emotions  so 
overcame  him  that  he  fainted.  His  daughter  re 
marks  that  this  union  of  strength  and  sensitiveness 
suggests  those  blue-eyed  arid  long-haired  Norsemen, 


146  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

who  made  their  songs  amid  the  smiting  of  swords, 
swift  of  foot,  strong  of  arm,  skilled  in  love,  ready  in 
counsel,  fierce  to  their  enemies,  tender  and  true  to 
their  friends. 

At  Glasgow  University  he  showed  the  same  pas 
sionate  vehemence  and  tendency  to  extremes,  in 
study,  social  life,  poetry,  music,  wild  escapade  —  yet 
never  immoral  nor  dissipated.  Such  superabundant 
vitality  is  apt  to  be  misunderstood  by  the  common 
place  majority  to  whom  such  ebullitions  savor  of 
intoxication  or  insanity  or  a  lamentable  eccentricity, 
but  more  of  such  individuality,  independence,  en 
thusiasm,  and  outdoor  life  would  be  an  improve 
ment  to  our  race. 

He  kept  a  diary  in  college  days,  like  himself, 
odd  and  queerly  mixed.  In  one  line,  "  Gave  Archy 
my  buckskins  to  clean "  ;  in  next,  "  Prize  for  the 
best  specimen  of  the  Socratic  mode  of  reasoning 
given  out  in  Logic  "  ;  again,  "  Called  on  my  grand 
mother  ;  went -to  a  sale  of  books;  had  a  boxing- 
match  of  three  rounds  with  Lloyd  —  beat  him  "  ;  or, 
"  ran  three  miles  on  the  Paisley  road  for  a  wager 
against  a  chaise  with  Andrew  Napier  —  beat  them 
both!"  In  vacation,  "Finished  my  poem  on 
Slavery.  Began  an  essay  on  the  Faculty  of  Imagin 
ation.  vStayed  at  home  all  day.  Wrote  on  the  Phil 
osophy  of  the  Stoics. 

"For  barley  sugar,  6  pence. 

"  Began  to  learn  the  flute  by  myself. 

"  Prizes  distributed,  got  three  of  them." 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  147 

Sotheby  said  it  was  worth  a  journey  from  Lon 
don  to  hear  him  translate  a  Greek  chorus,  and  at  a 
later  day,  the  brawny  Cumberland  men  called  him 
"  a  verra  bad  un  to  lick." 

"  I  trust  I  make  myself  understood,"  he  once  said 
to  such  a  man,  after  knocking  him  down. 

When  a  boy  he  won  a  bet  by  walking  six  miles 
in  two  minutes  less  than  an  hour.  He  was  equally 
remarkable  as  a  leaper,  surpassing  all  competitors. 
He  once  jumped  across  the  Cheswell,  twenty-three 
feet  clear,  with  a  run  of  only  a  few  yards,  the  great 
est  feat  of  this  kind  on  record.  Gen.  Washington's 
greatest  leap  was  but  twenty-one  feet.  It  is  curious 
that  Wilson's  learned  rival,  Sir  W.  Hamilton,  was 
also  a  noted  leaper. 

At  Oxford  he  was  the  first  boxer,  leaper,  cock- 
fighter,  and  runner  among  the  students,  but  gained 
the  Newdigate  prize  for  poetry,  and  became  so 
flaming  a  Radical  that  he  would  not  allow  a  servant 
to  black  his  shoes,  but  might  be  seen,  the  yellow- 
haired  glorious  savage,  performing  that  interesting 
operation  himself. 

At  that  early  period  he  strongly  admired  Words 
worth  and  wrote  him  a  letter  of  extraordinary  length, 
which  the  contemplative  bard  kindly  answered.  In 
after  years  he  lost  all  patience  with  the  diffuse  dreary 
wastes  that  marred  his  longer  poems.  The  bald  sim 
plicity  of  his  childish  doggerel  when  he  was  true  to 
his  own  theories  about  poetry  was  too  much  for  Wil 
son's  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  his  over-mastering 


148  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

conceit  caused  this  former  favorite  to  dwindle  to  the 
proportions  of  a  good  and  great  old  man,  who,  when 
he  forget  his  creed,  rose  to  sublimity.  If  all  dared 
to  express  their  honest  opinions  as  did  Wilson,  we 
should  find  there  had  been  a  good  deal  of  sham  ad 
miration  about  many  of  our  beacon  lights  in  litera 
ture,  from  Chaucer  to  Browning. 

At  college,  too,  there  was  an  unfortunate  love 
affair,  a  tangled  net  of  adoration,  hope,  perplexity, 
mystification,  and  despair,  a  necessary  experience 
apparently  in  a  poet's  career,  from  Spenser's  Rosa 
lind  to  Tennyson's  Lillian. 

After  graduation  in  1807,  he  built,  all  on  the 
ground  floor,  a  beautiful  home  in  Westmoreland, 
which  De  Quincey  describes  in  his  glowing  way.  It 
was  Wilson,  by  the  way,  who  gave  the  name  to  the 
"  Lake  School."  De  Quincey  was  impressed  by  the 
humility  and  gravity  with  which  Wilson  spoke  of 
himself,  no  tinge  of  arrogance  in  his  manner,  a 
refreshing  contrast  to  the  colossal  conceit  of  his 
neighbors. 

There  were  merry  regattas  on  the  Lake  and  mer 
rier  dances  on  shore.  De  Quincey  says  that  Wilson 
was  the  best  male  dancer,  not  professional,  he  had 
ever  seen,  although  he  had  never  taken  a  lesson  ;  and 
it  was  at  a  ball  that  he  met  his  fate,  Miss  Jane  Penny, 
a  leading  belle  of  the  Lake  country,  rich,  accom 
plished,  and  beautiful.  And  when  he  danced  with 
her,  which  he  did  often,  they  attracted  all  eyes,  and 
many  stopped  to  watch  them.  They  were  often 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  149 

cheered  as  they  entered  a  room,  in  mere  admiration 
of  their  appearance. 

"  So  stately  his  form  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace." 

Pretty  Miss  Jane  seems  for  a  time  quite  jealous  of 
a  bewitching  widow  to  whom  Wilson  was  attentive. 
She  writes :  "  Mr.  Wilson  is  flirting-  with  a  pretty 
little  widow.  She  is  generally  admired  by  the  male 
part  of  creation,  but  not  by  our  sex.  I  don't  know 
whether  Mr.  Wilson's  attentions  to  her  will  end  in  a 
marriage,  but  I  hope  not  — for  his  sake.  I  think  he 
is  deserving  a  very  superior  woman." 

Most  truly  did  he  win  one,  secured  in  Miss  Penny. 
It  was  an  ideal  companionship ;  one  of  unbroken 
happiness.  He  was  married  on  the  nth  of  May, 
1 8 1 1 ,  and  wrote  that  morning  to  his  most  intimate 
friends  of  his  wife,  with  these  words  : 

"  She  is,  in  gentleness,  innocence,  sense,  and  feel 
ing,  surpassed  by  no  woman,  and  has  remained  pure 
as  from  her  Maker's  hands.  Surely,  if  I  know  myself 
I  am  not  deficient  in  kindness  and  gentleness  of  na 
ture.  I  will  to  my  dying  day  love,  honor,  and  worship 
her."  This  determination  was  most  fully  kept,  for 
Wilson  was  a  model  of  a  lover  and  husband  in  one. 

Thenceforth  his  life  had  a  deeper  purpose,  and 
his  home  was  a  place  of  pure  sunshine.  There  was 
no  wedding  tour,  but  they  went  at  once  to  his  cottage 
home. 

During  the  first  year  of  married  life  he  published 
"The  Isle  of  Palms."  The  sale  was  not  gratifying.  Of 


150  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

the  four  happy  years  that  were  passed  in  the  cottage 
at  Elleray,  from  1811  to  1815,  there  is  little  to  be  told. 
The  happiest  families,  like  the  happiest  nations, 
have  no  history.  Then  came  unlooked-for  trouble. 
An  uncle  proved  dishonest  and  treacherous,  squander 
ing  Wilson's  entire  fortune,  and  ruined  himself  also. 
Wilson  bore  the  blow  bravely,  and  generously  assisted 
to  support  this  disgraced  relative.  He  now  had  to 
leave  his  beloved  sycamore-sheltered  Elleray,  going 
to  Edinburgh  to  live  with  his  mother,  a  stately,  hand 
some  old  lady,  who  welcomed  him  and  his  family  to 
her  pleasant  house  in  Queen  street.  In  1815,  he  was 
called  to  the  bar,  but  that  routine  was  impossible  for 
him.  He  did  sometimes  get  cases,  but  said  laugh 
ingly  afterward,  "  I  did  not  know  what  the  devil  to 
do  with  them." 

About  the  beginning  of  July,  1815,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wilson  set  out  for  a  pedestrian  tour  through  the 
Highlands,  which  was  successfully  accomplished, 
astonishing  the  villagers  wherever  they  stopped  by 
their  striking  appearance.  One  day  she  walked 
twenty-five  miles.  On  their  return  they  were  quite 
the  lions  of  Edinburgh.  It  was  predicted  that  Mrs. 
Wilson  would  come  back  sunburnt,  weather-beaten, 
and  freckled.  But  such  expectations  were  agreeably 
disappointed.  One  old  lady  who  called  immediately 
exclaimed :  "  Weel,  I  declare,  she's  come  back  bon 
nier  than  ever." 

De  Quincey  often  accompanied  Wilson  on  these 
tramps.  Their  friendship  was  lifelong.  Sheltered  at 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  151 

the  house  one  stormy  night,  the  marvelous  little 
man  remained  a  year.  He  gave  his  daily  instructions 
to  the  cook  in  his  own  peculiar  phraseology  and  with 
the  minuteness  and  prolixity  which  never  left  him. 
The  good  soul  listened  in  silent  awe,  entirely  over 
powered,  as  he  requested  that  his  slice  of  rare  mutton 
be  cut  in  a  "  diagonal  rather  than  a  longitudinal 
form,"  but  gave  as  her  private  opinion,  "  That  bodie 
has  an  aufu  sicht  o'  words.  My  ain  master  would 
ha'  ordered  a  hale  table  fu'  in  a  little  more  than  a 
haff  o'  his  haun  —  and  here's  a'  this  claver  about  a  bit 
mutton,  nae '  bigger  than  a  peni.  Mr.  De  Quinshey 
would  mak  a  gran'  preacher  —  though  I'm  thinkin' 
that  a  hantle  o'  the  folk  would  na  ken  what  he  was 
drivin'  at.  "  A  sensible  criticism  on  the  convolu 
tions  and  intricacies  of  the  Opium  Eater's  arabesque 
style,  certainly  as  valuable  as  the  comments  of  Grant 
White's  washerwoman  on  puzzling  passages  in 
Shakespeare. 

The  "  City  of  the  Plague,"  published  next  year 
(1816)  was  favorably  criticised  by  Jeffrey,  and  Byron 
placed  it  among  the  great  works  of  the  age.  But  as 
a  poet,  Wilson  will  not  live  —  strange  to  say ;  he  was 
too  soft  and  feminine  in  style  ;  while  as  a  word  pain 
ter  he  is  almost  unequaled. 

His  novels,  though  exquisite  specimens  of  poetic 
prose,  are  overloaded  with  sentiment  and  emotion, 
and  the  characters  far  above  the  average  of  Scot 
tish  rural  life,  yet  they  were  hailed  with  delight  when 
they  appeared,  producing  the  same  sensation  as 


152  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

George  McDonald's  first  and  best  story,  "  The  Annals 
of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood." 

With  the  year  1817,  begins  Wilson's  connection 
with  BlackwoocTs  Magazine. 

At  that  time  Edinburgh  was  crowded  with  clever 
men,  most  of  them  young, who  felt  that  the  Tory  party, 
to  which  they  belonged,  had  been  too  loudly  crowed 
over  by  the  Edinburgh  Review,  the  oldest  of  the  great 
British  quarterlies,  originated  by  such  men  as  Sydney 
Smith,  Francis  Jeffrey,  Henry  Brougham,  and  Francis 
Horner.  It  was  a  tremendous  power,  with  its  light 
flying  artillery  of  wit,  personality,  and  sarcasm. 
Jeffrey  was  a  critic  to  be  feared  and  hated.  Words 
worth  used  to  class  Robespierre,  Bonaparte,  and 
Jeffrey  together  as  the  three  most  formidable  ene 
mies  of  the  human  race  who  had  appeared  within  his 
remembrance.  Jeffrey  had  dared  to  say  of  his 
"  Excursion,"  "  This  will  never  do." 

A  rival  magazine  was  needed,  and  Blackwood,  the 
bookseller,  started  one.  The  first  numbers  were  de 
scribed  as  "  dull  and  decent."  This  was  not  what  was 
wanted.  Blackwood  dismissed  his  editors  and  ob 
tained  the  services  of  James  Hogg,  who  by  his 
"  Queen's  Wake  "  had  just  taken  rank  among  the 
first  poets  of  Scotland,  of  Lockhart,  Scott's  son-in- 
law,  who  for  caustic  criticism  almost  equaled  Jeffrey, 
Dr.  Magrim,  a  witty  and  learned  Irishman,  John 
Gait,  the  novelist,  Robert  Sym,  the  Timothy  Tickler 
of  the  "  Noctes,"  and  John  Wilson. 

Hogg  contributed   the    famous    Chaldee   Manu- 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  153 

script,  a  literary  rocket,  a  sharp  satire  upon  the  Whig 
party  in  biblical  language.  Grant  White's  "  New 
Gospel  of  Peace"  is  closely  like  this.  This  was  received 
with  dismay,  astonishment,  wrath,  there  was  a  wild 
outcry  through  the  city,  and  it  was  threatened  to 
prosecute  Mr.  Blackwood  "  for  a  profane  parody  of 
the  Bible,"  though  we  imagine  the  personalities  dis 
tressed  the  accusers  more  than  the  profanity.  He 
paid  ,£1,000  in  costs  and  damages,  but  Blackwood 
was  looked  for  eagerly  afterwards  ;  and  it  was  never 
deficient  in  spicy  comments,  audacious,  lively,  unjus 
tified,  unscrupulous,  and  witty. 

At  one  time  it  was  a  habit  to  review  in  Black- 
wood  books  which  had  never  been  published,  such 
as  "  Peter's  Letters  to  his  Kinsfolks."  A  Dr.  Peter 
Morris  was  invented  as  the  letter- writer.  Lockhart, 
who  had  originated  the  joke,  was  forced  to  complete 
the  letters  as  a  third  edition  of  the  book.  The 
author's  name  became  well  known,  and  the  magazine 
gained  much  credit  for  having  introduced  Dr.  Morris 
to  the  world. 

In  this  new  magazine  the  genius  of  Wilson  found 
free  scope.  Like  an  athlete  who  never  before 
had  had  room  or  occasion  to  display  his  powers,  he 
now  reveled  in  their  exercise  in  an  arena  where  the 
competitors  were  abundant  and  the  onlookers 
eagerly  interested.  Month  after  month  he  poured 
fourth  the  exuberant  current  of  his  ideas  on  politics, 
poetry,  philosophy,  religion,  art,  books,  men,  and 
nature,  with  a  freshness  and  force  that  seemed 


154  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

incapable  of  exhaustion  and  regardless  of  obstacles, 
dealing  at  first  many  a  blow,  which  later  he  saw 
reason  to  repent.  But  the  malignant  attacks  came 
from  others,  and  he  was  never  the  editor,  although 
the  leading  spirit. 

Wilson  and  Lockhart  were  the  most  versatile  of 
all  the  band,  between  them  capable  at  any  time  of 
providing  the  whole  contents  of  a  number.  There 
was  a  striking  contrast  in  the  outward  aspect  of 
these  men.  Wilson,  so  ruddy,  off-hand,  and  cheery, 
Lockhart,  with  pale  olive  complexion,  thin  lips, 
expression  sombre  and  severe,  and  haughty,  super 
cilious  manner,  a  man  who  could  give  you  a  chill, 
or,  as  someone  said  after  a  dinner  in  Boston,  "  I  sat 
next  Edward  Everett  yesterday,  and  caught  a  severe 
cold."  He  was  well  depicted  by  Wilson  through  the 
mouth  of  the  Shepherd  (who  was  made  to  say  so  much 
he  never  thought  of),  as  "  the  Oxford  collegian  wi'  a 
pale  face  and  a  black  toozy  head,  but  an  ei  like  an 
eagle's."  The  black-haired,  Spanish-looking  Oxonian, 
with  that  uncanny  laugh  of  his,  was  a  dangerous 
person  to  encounter  in  the  field  of  letters.  "  I've 
sometimes  thocht,  Mr.  North,"  says  the  Shepherd, 
"  that  ye  were  a  wee  feared  for  him  yoursel,  and 
used  rather  without  kenning  it  to  draw  in  your 
horns."  In  the  Chaldee  he  was  called  "  The  Scor 
pion."  Wilson  impaled  a  victim  as  he  did  a  fish,  as 
if  he  loved  him ;  the  other,  cool,  crafty,  and  lacking 
in  compassion. 

Wilson  said  of  himself : 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  155 

"  We  love  to  do  our  work  by  fits  and  starts.  We 
hate  to  keep  fiddling  away,  an  hour  or  two  at  a  time 
at  one  article  for  weeks.  So  off  with  our  coat,  and 
at  it  like  a  blacksmith.  When  we  once  get  the  way 
of  it,  hand  over  hip,  we  laugh  at  Vulcan  and  all  his 
Cyclops.  From  nine  of  the  morning  till  nine  at 
night,  we  keep  hammering  away  at  the  metal,  iron 
or  gold,  till  we  produce  a  most  beautiful  article.  A 
biscuit  and  a  glass  of  Madeira,  twice  or  thrice  at  the 
most,  and  then  to  a  well-won  dinner.  In  three  days, 
gentle  reader,  have  We,  Christopher  North,  often 
produced  a  whole  magazine  —  a  most  splendid  num 
ber.  For  the  next  three  weeks  we  were  as  idle  as  a 
desert,  and  as  vast  as  an  antre,  and  thus  we  go, 
alternately  laboring  like  an  ant,  and  relaxing  in  the 
sunny  air,  like  a  dragon-fly,  enamored  of  extremes." 

In  its  palmy  days,  Blackwood's  Magazine  realized 
an  ideal  which  has  never  been  surpassed.  Credit 
should  be  given  to  Wilson  who  invited  Bulwer  to 
contribute,  which  invitation  stimulated  the  creation 
of  "  The  Caxtons  and  My  Novel,"  Bulwer's  best 
prose  production.  Wilson  was  the  first  of  his  party 
to  appreciate  Shelley,  and  to  do  justice  to  Byron  ; 
paid  the  most  eloquent  tributes  to  Burns  and  to 
Dickens.  Seldom  have  discrimination  and  imagina 
tive  luxuriance  been  so  combined.  The  names  of 
the  contributors  secured  by  him  furnish  a  brilliant 
array.  No  periodical  was  ever  more  indebted  to  the 
efforts  of  one  individual. 

Let  me  give  a  few  extracts  to  show  his  originality, 


156  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

insight,  and  power.  Some  wise  heads  insist  that 
literature  should  be  studied,  enjoyed,  or  reviewed 
without  any  connection  with  the  life  and  habits  of 
the  author,  but  I  agree  fully  with  Wilson  when  he 
says: 

"In  reviewing,  in  particular  what  can  be  done 
without  personality  ?  Nothing,  nothing.  What  are 
books  that  don't  express  the  personal  characters  of 
their  authors ;  and  who  can  review  books  without 
reviewing  those  that  wrote  them. 

"  Can  a  man  read  La  Fontaine  without  perceiv 
ing  his  personal  good  nature  ?  Swift's  personal  ill- 
nature  is  quite  as  visible.  Can  a  man  read  Burns 
without  having  the  idea  of  a  great  and  a  bold  man, 
or  Barry  Cornwall  without  the  very  uncomfortable 
feeling  of  a  little  man  and  a  timid  one  ?  The  whole 
of  the  talk  about  personality  is  cant. 

"  Look  at  our  literature  now,  and  it  is  all  periodical 
together.  A  thousand  daily,  thrice  a  week,  twice  a 
week,  weekly  newspapers,  a  hundred  monthlies, 
fifty  quarterlies,  and  twenty-five  annuals.  No  mouth 
looks  up  now  and  is  not  fed  !  On  the  contrary,  we 
are  in  danger  of  being  crammed ;  an  empty  head  is 
as  rare  as  an  empty  stomach ;  the  whole  day  is  one 
meal,  one  physical,  moral,  and  intellectual  feast; 
the  public  goes  to  bed  with  a  periodical  in  her  hand 
and  falls  asleep  with  it  beneath  her  pillow. 

"  What  blockhead  thinks  now  of  reading  Milton  or 
Pope  or  Gray  ?  Paradise  Lost  is  lost ;  it  has  gone  to 
the  devil.  Pope's  Epistles  are  returned  to  the  dead- 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  157 

letter  office  ;  the  age  is  too  loyal  for  'Ruin  seize  thee, 
ruthless  king,'  and  the  oldest  inhabitant  has  forgot 
ten  '  the  curfew  tolls.' >: 

"  The  great  charm  o'  conversation  is  being  aff  on 
ony  wind  that  blaws.  Pleasant  conversation  between 
friends  is  just  like  walking  through  a  mountainous 
kintra,  at  every  glen-mouth  the  winn  blaws  frae  a 
different  airt." 

"North.  I  believe  country  congregations  are,  in 
general,  very  attentive. 

"Shepherd.  Ay,  ay,  Sir!  If  twa  are  sleepin'  ten 
are  wauken,  and  I  seriously  think  that  mair  than  ae 
half  o'  them  thats  sleepin'  enter  into  the  spirit  o'  the 
sermon.  You  see  they  a'  hear  the  text  and  the  intro 
ductory  remarks  and  the  heads,  and  fa'in  asleep  in  a 
serious  and  solemn  mood,  they  carry  the  sense  alang 
in  them  ;  neither  can  they  be  said  no  to  hear  an 
accompanyin'  soun',  so  that  it  wadna  be  just  fair 
to  assert  that  they  lose  the  sermon  they  dinna  listen 
to,  for  thochts  and  ideas  and  feelings  keep  floatin' 
down  alang  the  streams  o'  silent  thocht,  and  when 
they  awaken  at  the  "  Amen,"  their  minds,  if  no 
greatly  instructed,  hae  been  tranquilleezed ;  they 
join  loudly  in  the  ensuing  psalm,  and  without  remem 
bering  mony  o'  the  words,  carry  hame  the  feek  o'  the 
discoorse  an.d  a'  the  peculiarities  of  the  doctrine." 

This  is  like  the  story  of  the  dominie  who,  hearing 
from  Sandy  that  he  liked  the  Sabba  day  best  of  all, 
endeavored  to  draw  him  out,  hoping  for  a  compli 
ment  for  his  sermons.  "  Oh,  yes.  Sunday's  the  day 


158  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

for  me,  for  then',  you  see,  I  gets  into  my  clean  claes, 
and  goes  to  the  kirk,  and  sits  down  in  my  pew,  and 
shuts  the  door,  and  lays  up  my  legs,  and  thinks  o' 
nothin'." 

"  The  human  heart  is  shaped  like  this  table  —  a 
sort  o'  oval,  and  thus  friends  can  be  accommodated 
in  the  ane  and  at  the  ither  without  ony  body  pre- 
tendin'  to  ony  precedence,  and  to  the  prevention  o' 
a  quarrel  on  that  pint,  atween  love  and  pride." 

"  The  joy  of  grief.  That  is  a  joy  known  but  to 
the  happy." 

"James.  The  soul  that  can  dream  of  past  sorrows 
till  they  touch  it  with  a  pensive  delight,  can  be 
suffering  under  no  severe  trouble." 

"  We  idolize  Genius  to  the  neglect  of  the  worship 
of  Virtue.  One  truly  good  action  performed  is 
worth  all  that  Shakespeare  ever  wrote." 

"  That  which  in  real  life  would  be  fulsome  cannot 
breathe  sweetly  in  fiction,  for  fiction  is  still  a  reflec 
tion  of  truth,  and  truth  is  sacred." 

On  Wordsworth. 
North. 

"Why,  Tickler,  many  of  the  poets  of  our  days 
are,  with  all  their  genius,  a  set  of  enormous  spoons. 
Wordsworth  walks  about  the  woods  like  a  great  satyr, 
or  rather,  like  the  god  Pan,  and  piping  away  upon 
his  reed,  sometimes  most  infernally  out  of  tune.  He 
thinks  he  is  listening,  at  the  very  least,  to  music  equal 
to  that  of  the  spheres,  and  that  nobody  can  blow  a 
note  but  himself."  He  pronounced  the  "  Excur- 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  159 

sion  "  the  worst  poem  of  any  character  in  the  English 
language,  and,  in  a  rollicking  series  of  rhymes  on 
various  authors,  exclaimed : 

Now  here's  to  Will  Wordsworth,  so  wise  and  so  wordy, 
And  the  sweet,  simple  hymns  of  his  own  hurdy-gurdy. 
Who  in  vain  blows  the  bellows  of  Milton's  old  organ, 
While  he  thinks  he  could  lull  all  the  snakes  on  the  Gorgon. 

And,  after  a  gallant  and  protracted  rhapsody  over 
the  lady  poets  of  the  land,  Mrs.  Hemans,  L.  E.,  etc., 
he  closes  with : 

"And  what  the  devil,  then,  would  you  be  at,  with 
your  great  bawling  He-Poets  from  the  Lakes,  who 
go  round  and  round  about,  strutting  upon  nothing, 
like  so  many  turkey-cocks  gobbling,  with  a  long,  red 
pendant  at  their  noses,  and  frightening  away  the 
fair  and  lovely  swans  as  they  glide  down  the  waters 
of  immortality?" 

"  The  '  Noctes  Ambrosianse,'  so  unlike  anything 
else  that  had  appeared,  delighted  the  reading  world; 
and  Wilson  seemed  a  diffused  Shakespeare,  or 
Shakespeare  in  a  hurry,  with  a  printer's  devil  wait 
ing  at  the  door.  Falstaff  was,  for  a  season,  eclipsed 
by  the  '  Shepherd,'  and  Mercutio  and  Hamlet  to 
gether  had  their  glories  darkened  by  the  blended 
wit  and  wisdom,  pathos  and  fancy,  of  '  Christopher 
North.'  " 

Stevenson  said  in  an  early  essay,  of  the  more  per 
ennial  part  of  the  "  Noctes,"  "  We  have  here,  what 
is  perhaps  the  most  durable  monument  to  Wilson's 
fame.  We  might  class  him  as  a  Presbyterian  Fawn. 


160  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  the  '  Noctes  Ambrosi- 
anae  '  are  now  so  little  appreciated.  Fashion  is  incal 
culable,  but  I  cannot  think  they  will  be  permanently 
forgotten." 

These  papers  breathe  the  very  essence  of  the 
Bacchanalian  revel  of  clever  men, 'yet  a  too  literal 
interpretation  must  not  be  given  to  their  festivities. 
There  was  a  small  and  crushed-up-in-a-corner  hostel- 
rie  by  the  name  of  "  Ambrose's  Inn,"  where  the 
friends  occasionally  met,  but  these  dialogues  were 
written  with  prolonged  toil  in  a  rapid  manner,  and 
upon  no  stronger  inspiration  than  a  chicken  for  din 
ner  and  a  cup  of  tea. 

This  glorification  of  the  delights  of  drinking 
belongs  to  a  Scotsman's  patriotism,  and  a  man  should 
no  more  be  considered  to  endorse  all  that  he  writes 
in  that  convivial  strain  than  a  poet  when  he  sings  of 
love,  wheret  he  Clorindas  and  Delias,  from  Horace 
to  Swinburne,  are  two-thirds  of  them  ideal  creations. 

This  is  not  an  apology  for  what  seems  and  is  a 
blot,  but  simply  a  statement  of  facts.  "  The  Paradoxes 
of  Literature "  is  a  fertile  and  startling  theme. 
Wilson's  characters  in  the  "  Noctes "  are  equally 
idealized. 

Hogg  was  an  interesting  man  and  a  rustic  phe 
nomenon,  but  Christopher  made  Jamie  his  mouth 
piece,  and  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  of  the  "  Noctes  "  is 
one  of  the  most  finished  creations  which  dramatic 
genius  ever  evoked.  Some  of  Wilson's  thoughts  on 
Life,  Faith,  Death,  Immortality,  given  as  the  off-hand 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  161 

talk  of  the  Shepherd,  are  perfect  —  sermons  without 
any  effect  of  preaching,  impressive,  helpful,  elevating 
—  too  long,  unfortunately,  for  quotation. 

Hogg's  prose  writings  were  inferior  to  his  poetry. 
He  seemed  unconscious  of  the  beauty  of  his  pastoral 
description  and  imagery.  When  Jordan  praised  his 
verses  highly,  the  honest  Shepherd  rejoined:  "  Surely 
ye're  daft ;  its  only  joost  true  about  the  wee  burdies 
and  the  cows  at  e'en,  and  the  wild  flowers,  and  the 
sunset,  and  clouds,  and  things,  and  the  feelings  they 
creat.  A  canna  fathom  what  ye're  making  a'  this 
fuss  about.  Its  joost  a  plain  description  of  what  every 
body  can  see  ;  there's  nae  grand  poetry  in  it."  The 
intimacy  between  these  men  was  delightful.  Wilson 
once  walked  fifty  miles  in  one  day  to  be  present  at  a 
Burns  dinner,  to  pay  a  glowing  tribute  to  Hogg. 
The  simple-hearted  old  fellow,  who  had  not  expected 
it  in  the  least,  could  only  stammer  out  a  few  broken 
words  of  thanks,  his  face  flushed  scarlet  with  feeling, 
his  eyes  brimful  of  tears. 

A  guest  at  the  Burns  dinner  in  1816  recollects 
that,  somewhat  late  in  the  evening,  Wilson  mounted 
on  one  of  the  tables,  danced  a  pas-seul  among  the 
wine  glasses  and  decanters  without  any  fracture  of 
the  crystal,  aud  then  descending,  resumed  his  seat, 
with  a  ludicrous  air  of  intense  and  philosophic  grav 
ity,  as  if,  in  fact,  he  had  done  nothing  worthy  of  con 
sideration  or  gratitude.  He  longed  for  the  power  to 
write  a  popular  song,  saying,  "  I  know  what  it  should 
be,  but  I  cannot  do  it.  If  I  could  write  one  that 


162  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

would  be  sung  in  valley,  hill,  and  plain,  I  should  die 
happy.  There  is  not  a  peasant  in  Scotland  who  does 
not  know  Burns'  Songs." 

We  now  come  to  an  important  event.  In  April, 
1820,  the  chair  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University 
of  Edinburgh  became  vacant  by  the  4eath  of  Dr. 
Brown.  Sir  William  Hamilton,  a  whig,  who  was 
well  fitted  for  the  place,  and  John  Wilson,  a  tory, 
offered  themselves  as  candidates,  and  after  a  severe 
contest,  Wilson  was  triumphantly  elected.  Appar 
ently,  a  most  unfit  and  incongruous  appointment,  if 
moral  philosophy  is  the  gate  to  theology,  as  Chalmers 
insisted,  and  his  opponents  represented  him  as  a 
reveler  and  blasphemer,  even  attacking  his  private 
character,  which  was  absolutely  unassailable.  "  No 
doubt  he  was  a  humorist,  and  there  was  so  little  dis 
tinctively  "  moral "  in  the  rollicking  wit  of  Black- 
wood  that  the  majority  stood  aghast  at  the  fact  of 
this  magnificent  mad-cap,  this  reckless,  half-savage 
Titan  of  Literature,  spirited  into  the  throne  of 
Philosophy !  Scott  was  Wilson's  firm  supporter  in 
this  trying  time,  indignantly  denying  the  charges 
brought. 

The  faithful  Billy  Balmer  was  the  first  to  bring 
the  news  home.  Mrs.  Wilson  writes :  "  He  went 
yesterday  morning  and  stayed  near  the  scene  of 
action  till  it  was  all  over,  and  then  came  puffing 
down  with  a  face  of  delight,  to  tell  me  that  Master 
was  ahead  —  a  good  deal !  " 

Then  came  the  tremendous  tug  of  preparation. 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  163 

It  was  the  last  of  July.  The  class  was  to  meet  the 
beginning  of  November,  and  120  lectures  must  be 
prepared.  The  loving  wife  writes :  "  Mr.  W.  is  very 
well,  but  as  thin  as  a  rat,  and  no  wonder,  he  says  it 
will  take  him  one  month  at  least  to  make  out  a  cata 
logue  of  the  books  he  has  to  read  through  and  con 
sult.  I  am  perfectly  appalled  -when  I  go  into  the 
dining-room  and  see  all  the  folios,  quartos,  and  duo 
decimos  with  which  it  is  literally  filled,  and  the  poor 
culprit  himself  sitting  in  the  midst,  with  a  beard  as 
long  and  red  as  an  adult  carrot,  for  he  has  not  shaved 
for  a  fortnight."  The  opening  of  the  session,  Chris 
topher's  first  appearance  as  a  professor,  was  an 
interesting  occasion. 

"  The  lecture-room  was  crowded  to  the  ceiling," 
says  an  eye-witness.  Such  a  collection  o£  hard- 
browed,  scowling  Scotsmen  muttering  over  their 
knot-sticks,  I  never  saw.  The  professor  entered 
with  a  bold  step  and  in  profound  silence.  Every 
one  expected  some  propitious  introduction  of  him 
self,  but  he  began  in  a  voice  of  thunder  right  into 
the  matter  of  his  lecture,  and  kept  up  unflinchingly 
and  unhesitatingly  without  a  pause  a  flow  of  rhetoric 
such  as  his  predecessors  never  delivered  in  the  same 
place.  Those  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to  praise. 

There  were  always  some  people  who  believed 
that  he  was  nothing  more  than  a  splendid  declaimer 
and  that  his  lectures  contained  more  poetry  than 
philosophy.  But  those  who  studied  with  him  knew 
how  false  was  this  estimate.  One  of  his  class,  speak- 


164  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

ing  of  his  thorough  work,  "  There  was  a  notion  that 
he  was  there  '  Christopher  North  '  and  nothing  else  ; 
that  you  could  get  scraps  of  poetry,  bits  of  sentiment, 
flights  of  fancy,  flashes  of  genius,  and  anything  but 
moral  philosophy.  Nothing  was  further  from  the 
truth.  In  the  very  first  lecture  he  cut  into  the  core 
of  the  subject,  raised  the  question  which  has  always 
in  this  country  been  held  to  be  the  hardest  and 
deepest  in  science  (the  origin  of  the  moral  faculty), 
and  hammered  at  it  through  the  greater  part  of  the 
session.  Even  those  who  had  a  morbid  appetite  for 
swallowing  hard  and  angular  masses  of  logic  found 
that  the  work  here  was  quite  stiff  enough  for  any  of 
us.  It  was  not  till  his  lectures  on  the  Affections 
and  the  Imagination  that  he  wandered  freely  over  a 
more  inviting  field. 

Yes,  "  Wilson  imported  into  the  old  university  a 
prodigious  accession  of  vital  force.  No  academical 
automaton  was  he  with  pedantic  tones  grinding  out 
the  same  dry  formulae  year  by  year.  No  round- 
shouldered,  abstracted,  bloodless  recluse,  utterly 
ignorant  of  life  outside  a  library,  and  with  about  as 
much  influence  on  his  young  audience  as  a  mummy 
in  a  museum,  or  a  last  year's  fly  pressed  in  some 
musty  encyclopedia — you  have  seen  metaphysicians 
who  had  scarcely  more  life.  Wilson  was  intensely 
human,  and  to  young  men  whose  hatred  is  hum 
drum,  whose  delight  is  truth,  courage,  mastery,  he 
was  a  daily  inspiration.  So  profuse  was  the  imagery, 
so  brilliant  the  diction,  so  exciting  the  passion  that 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  165 

very  dull  must  have  been  the  clod  that  did  not  catch 
fire.  Under  the  spell  many  found  themselves  think 
ers,  poets,  and  workers.  It  is  matter  for  lasting 
regret  that  these  lectures  written  on  bits  of  papers 
and  the  backs  of  envelopes  were  not  preserved  to 
give  solidity  to  his  reputation. 

"  His  appearance  in  the  class-room  is  far  easier  to 
remember  than  to  forget.  He  strode  into  it  with  the 
professor's  gown  hanging  loosely  on  his  arms,  took  a 
comprehensive  look  over  the  mob  of  young  faces, 
laid  down  his  watch,  so  as  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of 
his  sledge-hammer  fist,  glanced  at  his  notes,  and 
then,  to  the  bewilderment  of  those  who  had  never 
heard  him  before,  looked  long  and  earnestly  out  of 
the  north  window  towards  the  spire  of  the  old  Tron 
Kirk,  until,  having  at  last  got  his  idea,  he  faced 
round  and  uttered  it,  with  eye  and  hand  and  voice 
and  soul  and  spirit,  and  bore  the  class  along  with 
him.  .  . 

"And  occasionally  in  the  finer  frenzy  of  his  more 
imaginative  passages,  as  when  he  spoke  of  Alexan 
der,  clay-cold  at  Babylon,  with  the  world  lying  con 
quered  round  his  tomb  —  or  of  the  Highland  hills 
that  pour  the  rage  of  cataracts  adown  their  riven 
cliffs  —  or  of  the  human  mind  with  its  '  primeval 
granitic  truths,'  the  grand  old  face  flushed  with  the 
proud  thought,  and  the  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears, 
and  the  magnificent  frame  quivered  with  a  universal 
emotion." 

You  see  how  his  undying  enthusiasm  permeated 


166  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

the  minds  of  his  audience.  'Tis  a  living  power 
to-day.  It  was  heart  to  heart  as  well  as  head  to 
head,  and  his  power  was  always  the  side  of  good 
in  the  lecture-room.  But  we  must  return  to  his 
literary  life.  In  1820,  this  announcement  appeared 
in  the  book-lists :  "  In  the  Press  —  Lays  from  Fairy 
Land,  by  John  Wilson,  author  of  The  Isle  of 
Palms."  This  was  never  published. 

"  Doth  grief  e'er  sleep  in  a  Fairy's  breast? 
Are  dirges  sung  in  the  land  of  Rest? 
Tell  us,  when  a  fairy  dies 
Hath  she  funeral  obsequies  ? 
Are  all  dreams  there  of  woe  and  mirth 
That  trouble  and  delight  on  earth  ? " 

Lord  Jeffrey  said  he  was  never  tired  of  reading 
his  description  of  a  "Fairy's  Funeral,"  which  I  will 
read: 

"  There  it  was,  on  a  little  river  island,  that  once, 
whether  sleeping  or  waking,  we  know  not,  we  saw 
celebrated  a  fairy's  funeral.  First  we  heard  small 
pipes  playing,  as  if  no  bigger  than  hollow  rushes 
that  whisper  to  the  night  winds,  and  more  piteous 
than  aught  that  trills  from  earthly  instrument  was 
the  scarcely  audible  dirge.  It  seemed  to  float  over 
the  stream,  every  foam-bell  emitting  a  plaintive 
note,  till  the  fairy  anthem  came  floating  over  our 
couch,  and  then  alighting  without  footsteps  on  the 
heather.  The  pattering  of  little  feet  was  then  heard, 
as  if  living  creatures  were  arranging  themselves  in 
order,  and  then  there  was  nothing  but  a  more 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  167 

ordered  hymn.  The  harmony  was  like  the  melting 
of  musical  dewdrops,  and  sung  without  words  of  sor 
row  and  death. 

"  We  opened  our  eyes,  or  rather  sight  came  to 
them  when  closed,  and  dream  was  vision. 

"  Hundreds  of  creatures,  no  taller  than  the  crest 
of  tha^  lapwing,  and  all  hanging  down  their  veiled 
heads,  stood  in  a  circle  on  a  green  plat  among  the 
rocks ;  and  in  the  midst  was  a  bier,  framed,  as  it 
seemed,  of  flowers  unknown  to  the  Highland  hills, 
and  on  the  bier  a  fairy  lying  with  uncovered  face, 
pale  as  a  lily  and  motionless  as  the  snow.  The  dirge 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  then  quite  died  away, 
when  two  of  the  creatures  came  from  the  circle  and 
took  their  station,  one  at  the  head,  the  other  at  the 
foot  of  the  bier.  They  sang  alternate  measures,  not 
louder  than  the  twittering  of  the  awakened  wood- 
lark  before  it  goes  up  the  dewy  air,  but  dolorous 
and  full  of  the  desolation  of  death.  The  flower-bier 
stirred,  for  the  spot  on  which  it  lay  sank  slowly 
down,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  greensward  was  as 
smooth  as  ever,  the  very  dews  glittering  above  the 
buried  fairy.  A  cloud  passed  over  the  moon,  and 
with  a  choral  lament  the  funeral  troops  sailed  duskily 
away,  heard  afar  off,  so  still  was  the  midnight  soli 
tude  of  the  glen.  Then  the  disenthralled  river 
began  to  rejoice  as  before,  through  all  her  streams 
and  falls,  and  at  the  sudden  leaping  of  the  waters 
and  outbursting  of  the  moon  we  awoke." 

The  home  life  ,of  Wilson  combined  all  that  is  best 
expressed  in  those  words. 


168  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

Wife,  children,  pets,  play  through  many  of  his 
essays.  His  wife's  favorite  plant  was  the  myrtle ; 
we  find  it  peeping  out  here  and  there  in  his  writings. 
There,  as  everywhere,  he  was  like  no  one  else.  On 
his  library  table,  fishing  rods  found  company  with 
Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson,  Jeremy  Taylor  reposed 
near  a  tin  box  of  barley  sugar,  bank  notes  were 
stuffed  between  books  (he  never  could  keep  a  purse), 
peeping  out  from  the  Fairy  Queen  were  no  end  of 
delicately-dressed  flies,  and  the  sparrow  hopping 
about,  master  of  the  situation.  This  little  pet  imag 
ined  itself  the  most  important  occupant  of  the  room. 
It  would  nestle  in  his  waistcoat,  hop  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  seemed  influenced  by  a  constant  association, 
for  it  grew  in  stature  until  it  was  alleged  that  the 
sparrow  was  gradually  becoming  an  eagle. 

His  love  for  animals  was  intense,  and  his  favorites 
were,  occasionally,  a  trial  to  the  rest  of  the  family,  as, 
when  his  daughter  found  he  had  made  a  nest  for 
some  young  game-cocks  in  her  trunk  of  party  dresses 
which  was  stored  in  the  attic. 

He  was  unique  in  everything.  When  Professor 
Aytoun  went  to  him  to  ask  the  hand  of  his  daugh 
ter,  Wilson  scribbled  on  a  bit  of  paper,  "  With  com 
pliments  of  the  author,"  and,  pinning  this  to  the 
sleeve  of  the  blushing  girl,  led  her  to  her  happy 
lover. 

But  death,  relentless,  inevitable,  took  the  idolized 
wife  suddenly,  and  the  blow  almost  deprived  Wil 
son  of  reason  for  a  time,  and  his  sorrow  was  life- 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  169 

long.  When  he  first  met  his  class  after  her  loss,  he 
was  to  decide  on  the  merits  of  various  essays  which 
had  been  sent  in  on  competition  for  a  prize.  He 
bowed  low,  and,  in  as  firm  voice  as  he  could  com 
mand,  apologized  for  not  having  examined  the  essays. 
^~Por,"  said  he,  "gentlemen,  I  could  not  see  to  read 
them  in  the  darkness  of  the  shadow  of  the  valley  of 
death."  As  he  spoke,  the  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks.  He  said  no  more,  but  waved  his  hand  to  his 
class,  who  stood  up  as  he  concluded  and  hurried  out 
of  the  lecture  room. 

Years  after,  when  lecturing  on  Memory,  he  de 
scribed  the  way  in  which  a  long- widowed  husband 
would  look  back  on  happier  days.  His  warm  elo 
quence  held  his  audience  enchained.  At  last,  over 
powered  by  his  emotions,  the  old  man  stopped  in 
mid  career,  and  buried  his  head  in  his  arms  on  the 
desk  before  him.  For  a  minute,  there  was  perfect 
stillness,  but  when  Wilson  again  raised  his  head,  and 
two  big  tears  were  seen  rolling  down  his  cheeks  as 
he  tried  to  go  on,  his  voice  was  drowned  in  the  loud 
cheers  of  the  students. 

And  if  ever  there  was  a  woman  worthy  to  be  sor 
rowed  for  through  a  lonely  life,  it  was  she.  So 
opposite  to  the  dazzling,  impetuous  spirit  of  her 
mate,  in  her  beautiful  gentleness  and  equanimity, 
and  adapting  herself  so  entirely  to  his  tastes. 

This  trial  brought  his  spiritual  nature  into  fuller 
action,  and  the  tone  of  his  writings  was  noticeably 
higher,  his  rough  ways  softened  to  a  marked  degree. 


170  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

His  kindness  to  his  grandchildren  was  beautiful. 
The  very  strength  of  his  hand  softened  to  gently 
caress  the  little  child  on  his  knee  or  clinging  to  his 
feet.  A  party  in  grandpa's  room  was  such  a  treat. 
He  would  set  the  table  with  all  sorts  of  goodies,  then 
act  as  waiter  and  be  ordered  about  in  the  most  irrev 
erent  fashion.  The  greatest  men  have  ever  been  the 
most  simple  in  their  home  life,  and  Wilson  did  not 
think  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  play  with  Noah's 
ark,  dolls,  trumpets,  and  puzzles,  to  amuse  the  little 
folks,  even  going  up  stairs  to  the  nursery  for  a  for 
gotten  toy,  or  coming  down  stairs  with  his  daughter's 
baby  clutched  by  the  back  of  her  long  robe,  very 
much  as  a  cat  carries  a  kitten. 

Many  daughters,  from  Fanny  Burney,  Lady  Hol 
land,  Mary  Dewey,  Mrs.  Lloyd,  to  Miss  Bushnell,  have 
been  their  father's  biographers,  a  difficult  task. 
Although  we  may  not  gain  so  just  an  idea  of  the 
character,  who  else  could  give  the  charming  home 
pictures,  the  inner  life,  the  little  ways  and  daily  hab 
its  that  make  one  acquainted  with  the  man.  Mrs. 
Gordon  says :  "I  would  not,  as  a  matter  of  taste, 
introduce  an  ordinary  toilette  to  the  attention  of  the 
reader,  but  with  the  professor  this  business  was  so 
like  himself,  so  original,  that  it  will  amuse  rather 
than  offend.  By  fits  and  starts,  the  process  of  shav 
ing  was  carried  on  —  walking  out  of  his  dressing- 
room  into  the  study,  lathering  his  chin  one  moment, 
then  standing  the  next  to  take  a  look  at  some  frag 
ment  of  a  lecture,  which  would  absorb  his  attention, 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  171 

until  the  fact  of  being  without  a  coat  and  having  his 
face  covered  with  soap  was  entirely  forgotten,  then 
his  waistcoat  was  put  on  ;  after  that,  perhaps,  he  had 
a  hunt  among  old  letters  and  papers  for  the  lecture 
now  lost  which  a  minute  before  he  had  in  his  hand. 
His  watch  was  a  great  joke.  In  the  first  place  he 
seldom  wore  his  own,  which  never  by  any  chance 
was  right,  or  treated  according  to  the  natural  proper 
ties  of  a  watch.  Many  wonderful  escapes  this  orna 
ment  had  from  fire,  water,  and  sudden  death.  He 
says  :  "  We  wound  up  our  chronometer  irregularly, 
by  fits  and  starts,  thrice  a  day,  perhaps,  or  once  a 
week,  till  it  fell  into  an  intermittent  fever,  grew 
delirious,  and  gave  up  the  ghost."  He  had  a  curious 
way  of  mislaying  things,  even  that  broad-brimmed 
hat  of  his  sometimes  went  a  missing,  his  snuff-box, 
his  gloves,  his  pocket-handkerchief,  everything, 
just  at  the  moment  he  wished  to  be  off  to  his  class, 
became  invisible." 

It  is  pleasant  to  record  a  pension  of  300  pounds 
from  the  Queen'  and  a  reconciliation  with  Jeffrey. 
Wilson  was  quick-tempered,  but  never  malignant, 
and  his  character  was  beautifully  softened  by  the 
hand  of  time.  The  last  years  I  do  not  like  to  dwell 
upon  —  when  the  massive  frame  drooped  sadly,  and 
the  magnificent  mind  was  clouded,  and  books  were 
opened  only  to  be  closed,  their  meaning  gone  for 
him.  The  yellow  locks  were  tinged  with  gray ; 
"  the  old  man  of  the  lion  heart  and  scepter  crutch  " 
was  fast  passing  away.  In  second  childhood  he  went 


172  Christopher  North  and  his  Friends 

back  with  the  old  delight  of  angling.  For  my  last 
picture  see  him  propped  up  in  bed  absorbed  with 
the  relics  of  a  youthful  passion.  Taking  out  each 
elegantly  dressed  fly  from  its  little  bunch,  drawing 
it  with  trembling  hand  along  the  white  coverlet, 
then  replacing  it  in  his  pocketbook,  he  would  tell  of 
the  streams  he  used  to  haunt. 

Paraylsis  came  in  the  spring  of  1853,  a  blessed 
release,  and  on  Sunday,  at  midnight,  his  heart  was 
still.  Writing  of  his  dying  hour  years  before,  he  said: 
"  May  that  hour  find  me  in  my  weeping  home,  'mid 
the  blest  stillness  of  a  Sabbath  day ;  may  none  I 
deeply  love  be  then  away." 

An  answered  prayer.  And  if  our  dear  ones  can 
return  to  guide  us  to  the  new  life,  his  wife,  I  am 
sure,  was  very  near  him,  though  unseen.  Wilson 
loved  America,  and  wanted  to  visit  us.  After  our 
famous  men,  he  desired  to  see  Niagara  ;  not  unlike 
Niagara  himself.  And  how  he  could  have  described 
it. 

Some  wise  heads  mourn  that  Wilson  did  not  con 
centrate  his  genius,  distinguish  himself  in  one  direc 
tion.  He  might  have  been  the  greatest  preacher  of 
the  age,  or  the  greatest  actor  of  the  day,  or  a  power 
ful  parliamentary  orator,  or  a  marvelous  dramatist. 
He  had  powers  that  might  make  him  in  literature 
the  very  first  man  of  his  generation.  Masson  com 
pares  him  to  a  Goth,  much  of  whose  powers  went  to 
waste,  for  want  of  stringent  self-regulation. 

Yes  ;    but  can  you  harness    the    lightning  that 


Christopher  North  and  his  Friends  173 

flashes  in  zigzag  splendor  on  a  summer  night  ?  Bril 
liant,  fitful,  fascinating,  Wilson  had  to  be  himself, 
and  those  who  know  him  best  find  no  cause  to  grieve. 

It  is  noticeable  that  in  estimating  or  describing 
Wilson,  there  is  a  natural  cumulation  of  epithets, 
and  more  compound  words  and  compound  adjectives 
coined  for  the  occasion  have  been  applied  to  him 
than  any  other  character  in  literature. 

Maginn,  a  witty  but  dissipated  Irish  genius  of 
that  time,  gives  this  off-hand  picture  :  "  A  corker,  a 
racer,  a  six-bottler,  a  twenty-four  tumblerer,  an  out- 
and-outer,  a  true,  upright,  knocking-down,  poetical, 
prosaic,  moral,  professional,  good-looking,  honorable, 
straight-forward  tory  ;  a  gipsy,  a  magician,  a  wit,  a 
six-foot  club  man,  an  unflinching  ultra  in  the  worst 
of  times.  In  what  was  he  not  great  "  ?  And  irresist 
ibly  carried  along,  I  exclaim  :  "  Dreamer,  doer,  poet, 
philosopher,  simple  child,  wisest  patriarch,"  hospita 
ble  friend,  husband-lover,  doting  father,  boisterous 
wit,  rollicking  humorist,  master  of  pathos,  practical 
joker,  sincere  mourner,  such  was  the  man  Christo 
pher  North.  A  Hercules  Apollo,  strong  and  immor 
tally  beautiful,  whom,  with  all  his  faults  and  foibles, 
we  stop  to  admire  and  stay  to  love. 


THE  OLD  MIRACLE  PLAYS. 


This  essay  on  the  "  Old  Miracle  Plays  "  was  pre 
pared  for  my  New  York  friends  when  Salmi  Morse 
was  threatening  to  bring  out  a  "  Passion  Play  "  in 
that  city.  As  few  have  the  time  to  look  up  the  his 
tory  of  these  plays  from  the  beginning,  the  result  of 
my  researches  may  still  be  interesting.  Remember 
that  what  seems  to  us  irreverent  was  once  true  wor 
ship. 

In  the  year  1633,  when  the  village  of  Oberam- 
mergau  was  visited  by  a  devastating  plague,  the 
Monks  of  Ettal  induced  the  parish  to  make  a  vow 
"  That  in  thankful  devotion  and  for  edifying  con 
templation,  they  would  every  ten  years  publicly  rep 
resent  the  Passion  of  Jesus  the  Saviour  of  the  World." 
Whereupon  the  parish  was  immediately  freed  from 
the  pestilence. 

We  are  all  familiar  with  the  "  Passion  Play,"  as 
represented  with  simplicity  and  reverence  by  these 
Bavarian  peasants.  We  have  had  lectures  and  let 
ters,  stereopticon  views,  vivid  word  pictures  from 
friends  who  have  witnessed  it,  and  books  giving  the 
entire  performance,  enriched  with  photographs  of 
the  actors,  are  familiar  to  many. 

It  is  an  entirely  different  matter  to  propose  to 
reproduce  with  an  entirely  different  motive  this 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  175 

remnant  of  the  middle  ages  in  a  modern  theater.  It 
would  then  become  a  blasphemous  mummery  —  a 
spectacular  sacrilege  —  a  sin  akin  to  that  of  Judas, 
and  the  clergy,  the  press,  and  the  voice  of  the  people 
forbade  it.  Studying  the  subject,  I  found  an  immense 
amount  of  material.  In  the  Boston  public  library 
alone,  there  are  132  volumes  on  the  "  Miracle  Plays" 
in  various  languages. 

We  might  start  with  Thespis  and  his  portable 
stage,  535  B.  C.  or  at  a  still  earlier  date,  but  I  do  not 
intend  to  ransack  Greece  and  Rome  for  a  history  of 
the  drama,  or  discuss  the  vexed  questions  of  the 
necessity  for  scenic  representations  in  every  age  and 
race.  We  see  children  perpetually  acting  in  their 
plays  and  the  childhood  of  nations  is  like  that  of 
individuals.  There  always  has  been  and  always  will 
be  a  longing  for  theatrical  excitement ;  we  may  say 
it  is  dangerous,  wicked,  must  be  put  down  !  People 
will  still  flock  to  a  good  comedy,  will  still  take  real 
pleasure  in  most  heart-rending  tragedies. 

In  country  villages  and  hamlets,  the  good  wives 
find  food  for  this  natural  appetite  in  the  woes  of 
their  neighbors.  Romance  and  tragedy  are  as  busy  in 
the  farmhouse  as  the  palace,  and  these  stories  of  sen 
timent  and  sorrow  are  made  common  property  and 
satisfy  the  eager  craving  for  excitement.  Now  and 
then  a  hopeful  clergyman,  or  an  enthusiastic  but  in 
experienced  playwright,  or  a  woman  ignorant  of 
what  she  is  talking  about,  and  (for  that  reason  talk 
ing  all  the  louder)  will  say  that  the  pulpit  and  theater 


176  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

must  go  hand  in  hand,  and  dream  of  not  exactly 
combining,  but  running  them  on  a  double  track.  You 
can  easily  see  how  it  uiiglit  be  done,  if  ministers 
would  only  study  the  actor's  art  of  impressing  and 
holding  an  audience  (throwing  in  a  few  timely 
lessons  in  elocution),  and  the  actors  —  etc.,  etc.,  but  it 
will  never  be  done. 

Curious  fact,  that  the  drama  started  in  the  church, 
religion,  in  all  countries,  first  excited  dramatic  repre 
sentations  ;  the  acts  are  closely  connected  ;  all  blood 
relations  —  they  began  in  worship.  Family  quarrels 
are  invariably  the  most  violent,  which  perhaps  ac 
counts  for  a  part  of  the  hostility  between  priests  and 
actors. 

Let  me  give  here  a  bit  from  Monsieur  Coguelius' 
book  on  "  Actors  and  their  Art." 

"  In  the  church  the  theater  was  born  with  myste 
ries  and  miracle  plays,  and  our  brothers  of  the  '  Pas 
sion  Play '  are  the  direct  ancestors  of  the  Theatre 
Francais. 

"In  those  days,  church  and  theater  fraternized. 
The  scenic  directions  £>rove  it,  heaven  above  with  its 
different  divisions  parted  off  in  true  hierarchic  order, 
and  the  awful  gulf  of  hell  yawning  below. 

"  How  does  it  happen  that  the  church,  so  mater 
nally  inclined  towards  mysteries  and  miracle  plays, 
has  picked  so  bitter  a  quarrel  with  us  since  ? 

"  Actors  have  been  canonized  by  the  church  ;  the 
church  refused  to  bury  Moliere  in  consecrated  ground. 
Now  the  church  consents  to  bury  us,  perhaps  with 
pleasure" 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  177 

Lecky,  in  his  History  of  Rationalism,  says  that 
"  Every  one  who  considers  the  world  as  it  really 
exists  and  not  as  it  appears  in  the  writings  of  ascetics 
or  sentimentalists,  must  have  convinced  himself  that 
in  great  towns  where  multitudes  of  men  of  all  classes 
and  characters  are  massed  together,  and  where  there 
are  innumerable  strangers  separated  from  all  domes 
tic  ties  and  occupations,  public  amusements  of  an 
exciting  order  are  absolutely  necessary,"  and  refers 
to  the  drama  as  of  immense  importance  in  the  intel 
lectual  history  of  mankind,  one  of  the  most  conspic 
uous  signs  of  a  rising  civilization,  combining  the 
three  great  influences  of  eloquence,  poetry,  and  of 
painting,  the  seed-plot  of  poetry  and  romance. 

"  The  church  adopted  the  drama  as  her  hand 
maid.  Demanding  that  men  should  dispense  with 
and  despise  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  she  must  her 
self  minister  to  the  natural  demands  of  humanity 
and  provide  attractions  in  her  own  domain." 

The  church  (says  Van  Laun  in  his  "  History  of 
French  Literature ")  was,  in  fact,  the  club  of  the 
middle  ages,  always  open,  peaceful,  cheerful,  and 
usually  entertaining. 

The  majority  of  the  people  did  not  understand 
the  language  of  prayer  and  hymn,  their  hearts  must 
be  reached  through  the  bodily  senses. 

The  first  Christian  drama  was  a  gesture.  It  was 
by  a  succession  of  gestures  that  the  priests  illus 
trated  and  interpreted  their  dead-letter  of  devotion. 
On  Ascension  days  a  priest  stood  in  his  surplice 


178  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

on  the  outer  gallery  of  the  Notre  Dame,  and  with 
outstretched  arms  represented  the  assumption  of 
Christ  into  Heaven.  On  the  feast  of  Pentecost  a 
dove  figured  the  presence  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  whilst 
tongues  of  fire  descended  from  the  roof  of  the 
church.  At  Easter,  three  men  dressed  in  white 
robes,  with  hoods  on  their  heads,  a  silver  flask  of 
consecrated  oil  in  their  hands,  interpreted  the  story 
of  the  three  Marys  proceeding  to  the  sepulchre, 
whilst  a  fourth,  in  the  form  of  an  angel,  announced 
to  them  the  resurrection  of  the  Lord.  At  Christmas, 
the  infant  Jesus  was  shown  in  his  manger,  the 
youngest  choristers  playing  the  parts  of  angels 
from  the  galleries. 

Little  by  little,  by  gradual  growth,  came  rich 
costumes,  stage  properties,  till  we  see  the  full- 
fledged  ecclesiastical  drama,  acted  in  church  and  at 
the  church  doors. 

"  The  Mystery  of  Adam,"  the  work  of  a  priest  in 
the  1 2th  century,  was  one  of  the  first  to  be  played  at 
the  church  porch.  The  scene  opens  showing  the 
Saviour  in  an  embroidered  dalmatic ;  Adam,  standing 
before  him  dressed  in  a  red  tunic,  attentive  to  his 
commands ;  Eve,  with  bowed  head,  dressed  in  a 
long  white  robe,  with  a  veil  of  spotless  silk  ;  Satan, 
in  serpent's  garb,  crawled  about  the  stage,  and  up 
the  trunk  of  the  forbidden  tree.  After  our  first 
parents  had  been  expelled  from  Paradise,  Satan 
busies  himself  with  sowing  thistles  and  briers. 
When  the  dejected  couple  return  and  see  the  teasing 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  179 

work  of  their  enemy  they  express  their  despair  by 
rolling  on  the  ground. 

In  another  play,  a  German  mystery,  Cain  and 
Abel  are  brought  before  the  Lord  by  Adam  to  be 
examined  as  to  their  proficiency  in  the  Lord's 
prayer.  Abel,  prompted  by  the  Saviour,  gets 
through  respectably,  but  Cain,  instigated  by  the 
devil,  says  the  prayer  backwards,  and  is  flogged, 
after  having  received  a  severe  cuff  from  his  father, 
for  not  taking  his  hat  off ! 

From  the  earliest  times  men  have  been  accus 
tomed  to  throw  into  dramatic  forms  the  objects 
of  their  belief,  and  the  pagan  mysteries,  which  were 
essentially  dramatic,  retained  their  authority  over 
the  popular  mind  long  after  every  other  portion  of 
the  ancient  worship  was  despised. 

The  first  Biblical  play  on  record  is  on  Moses, 
and  is  the  composition  of  a  Jew  named  Ezekiel,  who 
lived  in  the  2d  century.  They  were  written  in 
Latin  until  the  latter  part  of  the  I3th  century,  and 
were  usually  acted  by  priests  in  the  churches.  As 
they  grew  more  popular  they  brought  religion  into 
disrepute  by  their  indecency  and  irreverence.  But 
in  this  form  they  prepared  the  way  for  the  Reforma 
tion. 

The  first  recorded  development  of  the  Miracle 
play  was  in  France  in  the  i  ith  century,  but  soon  all 
German  and  Latin  nations  shared  the  same  impulse. 

At  first,  undertaken  by  the  priests  to  instruct  the 
people,  but  afterwards  the  people  themselves  took  all 
but  the  most  important  parts. 


180  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

Called  "  miracle  "  plays  because  they  represented 
the  miracles  or  narrated  some  wonder  of  the  Chris 
tian  faith,  or  iany  story  in  Scripture  or  the  Apoc 
rypha.  Sometimes  a  whole  town  undertook  a  play, 
then  a  solemn  trumpet-call  summoned  those  who 
wished  to  join  for  the  honor  of  Christ  or  the  good  of 
their  souls.  Each  swore  on  pain  of  death  to  care 
fully  study  their  role  and  not  fail  to  appear.  No 
entrance  money  was  paid,  but  expenses  made  up  by 
voluntary  gifts. 

Sometimes  the  performance  was  carried  on  from 
Creation  to  the  Judgment  and  lasted  for  several 
days,  one  even  twenty-five  days,  in  the  open  air  and 
fair  weather. 

But  the  miracle  plays  required  a  stage  of  three 
stories.  The  topmost  Paradise,  of  course.  In  that 
were  the  Trinity,  the  saints,  and  angels. 

It  was  carefully  adorned  with  tapestry  and 
shaded  by  green  trees,  which  appeared  to  blossom 
and  emit  sweet  odors. 

Below  was  Hell.  The  opening  and  shutting  of 
the  mouth  of  an  enormous  dragon  represented  the 
jaws  of  Hell,  or  the  dragon  was  painted  on  linen, 
with  great  open  jaws,  opened  and  shut  by  men,  and 
a  light  behind  to  give  the  effect  of  flames,  and  one 
of  the  stage  directors  of  long  ago  remarked  that 
when  the  devil  has  carried  off  a  soul,  there  shall  be 
a  great  noise  made  with  pans  and  kettles,  so  that  it 
shall  be  heard  without,  also  a  great  smoke  shall  be 
made. 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  181 

In  Germany,  Paradise  was  generally  at  one  end 
of  the  stage,  slightly  raised,  while  the  devil  had  only 
a  large  cask,  in  and  out  of  which  he  could  spring, 
while  another  served  as  the  mountain  of  the  Temp 
tation. 

All  the  players  came  on  the  stage  at  once ;  even 
the  ass  and  the  cock  which  crowed  for  Peter  had 
their  places.  Each  actor  was  supposed  to  be  invisible 
till  he  received  his  cue  and  stood  forth.  Each  when 
he  first  appeared  must  state  what  he  represented, 
and  as  the  art  of  shifting  scenes  was  unknown,  a 
notice  in  large  letters  indicated  here  a  hill  and  there 
a  grove,  etc. 

The  dress,  at  first  the  ordinary  priest's  gown, 
became  fantastic  to  suit  the  people.  The  condemned 
souls  were  supposed  to  wear  no  clothes,  but  some 
times  compromised  or  indicated  the  fact  by  wearing 
tight-fitting  shirts. 

The  stage  tricks  were  of  the  simplest  order.  In 
one  play  Judas  was  to  be  hanged  in  due  form  by 
Beelzebub. 

"  The  devil  must  take  care  of  the  fastening  and 
sit  behind  on  the  bar  of  the  gallows.  Judas  was  to 
carry  concealed  in  his  coat  a  blackbird  and  the 
entrails  of  some  animal,  so  that  when  his  coat  was 
torn  the  effect  should  be  impressive.  Then  both 
slid  down  to  the  lower  regions  on  a  slanted  rope." 

The  miracle  play  was  very  seriously  regarded  by 
the  actors  as  well  as  by  the  spectators.  It  was  the 
custom  before  commencing  that  the  whole  troupe 


182  The  Old  Miracle  Plays     . 

kneeling  on  the  stage  should  sing  the  hymn,  "  Veni 
Creator  Spiritus,"  either  in  Latin/  or  their  own  lan 
guage,  and  close  with  a  Te  Deunt. 

In  France,  as  well  as  in  Italy,  it  was  on  the 
boards  of  private  theatres  that  the  first  glimmering 
of  the  drama  appears.  Voltaire,  with  an  unusual  fit 
of  charity,  vindicated  the  scriptural  dramas  of  this 
early  period  from  the  charges  of  absurdity  brought 
against  them,  assuring  us  they  were  performed  with 
a  solemnity  not  unworthy  of  their  sacred  subjects. 

The  priests  became  jealous  of  their  showy  com 
petitors.  Many  of  these  miracle  plays  perished  with 
their  age,  many  were  burned  in  the  monasteries 
destroyed  by  Henry  VIII,  some  remain  amid  the 
dust  of  old  libraries.  Horace  Walpole  had  a  rare 
collection  at  Strawberry  Hill. 

In  Longland's  Piers  Ploughman's  Crede,  about 
the  middle  of  I4th  century,  we  find  two  lines  from  a 
friar  : 

"  We  haunt  no  taverns,  nor  hobble  about, 
At  markets  and  miracles  \ve  meddle  us  never." 

Chaucer  has  many  allusions  to  these  religious 
dramas,  and  he  speaks  of  the  wife  of  Bath  amusing 
herself  with  these  fashionable  diversions  while  her 
husband  is  absent  in  London  during  Lent. 

"  Therefore  made  I  my  visitations 
To  vigils  and  to  processions, 
To  preachings  eke,  and  to  these  pilgrimages, 
To  plays  of  miracles  and  to  marriages, 
And  wore  my  gay  scarlet  giles." 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  183 

As  in  Greek  worship,  we  find  mysterious  awe  and 
daring  jest  closely  connected.  Sharply  defined  con 
trasts  were  enjoyed  by  the  people  and  the  comic  by 
play,  absolutely  necessary  during  several  days  of 
solemn  representation,  took  nothing  from  their 
devout  spirit. 

Much  that  we  find  objectionable  is  only  a  mode 
of  expression  to  which  we  are  not  accustomed.  A 
mediaeval  uaivettt  or  uncouthness  which  meant  noth 
ing  wrong.  So  the  devil  at  first  a  frightful  being 
became  at  length  a  comic  personage  in  satyr-like 
masquerade,  and  his  associate,  Vice,  was  a  witty  fool, 
behaving  almost  exactly  like  our  clown  of  the 
modern  circus. 

As  the  excruciating  hand-organ  is  all  that  is  left 
as  a  type  of  minstrelsy,  Harlequin  and  Punch  and 
Judy  are  supposed  to  have  had  this  origin. 

The  devil  was  usually  represented  with  horns,  a 
very  wide  mouth  (by  means  of  a  mask),  staring  eyes, 
a  large  nose,  a  red  beard,  cloven  feet,  a  tail,  and 
furnished  with  a  stout  club.  His  appearance  and 
manner  excited  both  awe  and  mirth,  which  Hudson 
gives  as  the  germs  of  tragedy  and  comedy.  Some 
times  he  had  a  protean  versatility  of  mind  and  per 
son,  so  that  he  could  walk  abroad  as  "  plain  devil," 
scaring  all  he  met,  or  steal  into  society  as  a  prudent 
counselor,  an  lago-like  friend,  a  dashing  beau,  or 
whatever  was  best  for  his  purpose. 

No  play  now  is  complete  unless  the  devil  makes 
his  entree  in  the  guise  of  a  rough  or  a  gentlemanly 


184  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

villain,  or  a  snaky,  seductive  woman.  Vice  was  a 
comic  fool,  full  of  mad  pranks  and  saucy  jokes. 
And  we  are  all  pretty  much  like  Gossip  Tattle's 
spouse  in  Ben  Jonson's  "  Staple  of  News,"  who  says, 
"  My  husband,  Timothy  Tattle,  rest  his  poor  soul, 
was  wont  to  say  there  was  no  play  without  a  fool 
and  a  devil  in't ;  he  was  for  the  devil  still,  bless 
him !  The  devil  for  his  money,  he  would  say ;  I 
would  fain  see  the  devil." 

Vice  was  a  droll  character  accoutered  with  a  long 
coat,  a  cap,  a  pair  of  ass's  ears,  and  a  dagger  of  lath. 
This  buffoon  used  to  make  fun  with  the  devil,  and 
he  had  several  trite  expressions  as,  "  I'll  be  with  you 
in  a  trice,"  "  Ah  hah,  boy,  are  you  there  ? "  And 
this  was  a  great  entertainment  to  the  audience  to  see 
their  old  enemy  so  belabored  in  effigy.  He  was  the 
devil's  "  vice  "  or  prime  minister,  and  this  is  what 
made  him  so  saucy. 

Of  all  the  persons  who  figured  in  the  miracle 
plays,  Herod,  the  Slayer  of  the  Innocents,  was  the 
greatest  favorite.  We  hear  of  him  from  Chaucer, 
who  says  of  the  Parish  clerk,  Absalom  : 

"  Sometime,  to  show  his  lightness  and  maistrie, 
He  plaieth  Herode  on  a  scaffold  hie." 

He  was  always  represented  as  an  immense 
swearer  and  braggart  and  swaggerer,  ranting  and 
raving  up  and  down  the  stage,  with  furious  bombast 
and  profanity.  In  one  of  the  Chester  series  he  says : 

"  For  I  am  king  of  all  mankind: 
I  bid,  I  beat,  I  loose,  I  bind  : 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  185 

I  master  the  moon  !     Take  this  in  mind, 

That  I  am  most  of  might, 

I  am  the  greatest  above  degree, 

That  is,  that  was,  or  ever  shall  be  ; 

The  sun  it  dare  not  shine  on  me, 

An  I  bid  him  go  down." 

And  in  one  of  the  Coventry  series : 

"  Of  beauty  and  of  boldness  I  bear  evermore  the  bell  ; 

Of  main  and  of  might,  I  master  every  man  ; 
I  ding  with  my  doughtiness  the  devil  down  to  Hell  ; 
For  both  of  heaven  and  of  earth,  I  am  king,  certain." 

Termagant,  the  supposed  god  of  the  Saracens, 
was  another  staple  character  in  the  miracle  plays, 
also  a  great  boaster,  quarreller,  killer,  tamer  of  the 
universe,  child  of  the  earthquake,  and  the  brother  of 
death.  That  Shakespeare  had  suffered,  as  Hudson 
says,  "  under  the  monstrous  din  of  these  strutting 
and  bellowing  stage-thumpers  is  shown  by  Hamlet's 
remonstrance  with  the  players  : 

"  O  it  offends  me  to  the  soul,  to  hear  a  robustious,  periwig- 
pated  fellow  tear  a  passion  to  rags,  to  very  tatters,  to  split  the 
ears  of  the  groundlings  :  I  would  have  such  a  fellow  whipped  for 
o'erdoing  Termagant ;  it  out-Herods  Herod  :  pray  you  —  avoid  it." 

We  also  find  material  for  the  rest  of  his  speech, 
as  the  players  were  instructed  to  speak  with  dignity 
and  appropriate  gestures  —  neither  to  cut  off  or  add 
a  syllable,  and  to  pronounce  in  a  distinct  manner. 

Regarded  from  an  artistic  point  of  view,  the  Eng 
lish  Miracle  plays  are  the  best,  have  greater  anima- 


186  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

tion  and  skill  in  action,  essentially  epic,  and  they 
give  a  good  idea  of  the  manners,  customs,  and  degree 
of  progress  of  the  English  at  that  time.  And, 
as  prayers  were  in  an  unknown  tongue,  sermons 
few,  and  printing  uninvented,  they  furnished  almost 
all  the  religious  knowledge.  They  are  divided  into 
the  Chester,  Coventry,  York,  and  Townely  series, 
named  from  the  towns  where  they  originated.  The 
mayor  of  York  decreed  that  the  solemn  play  of 
Corpus  Christi  should  be  played  every  year,  that  the 
procession  should  appear  on  the  day  of  said  feast,  so 
that  people  being  in  the  said  city  might  have  leisure 
to  attend  devoutly  the  matins,  vespers,  and  other 
hours  of  the  said  feast.  And  that  men  of  crafts  and 
all  other  men  that  find  torches  come  forth  in  array. 
This  festival  of  Corpus.  Christi  was  instituted  by 
Pope  Urban  IV,  to  support  the  doctrine  of  transub- 
stantiation.  Here  is  a  portion  of  the  order  of  the 
pageants  of  the  play  of  Corpus  Christi : 

Tanners.  God  the  Father  Almighty  creating  and 
forming  the  heavens,  angels,  and  archangels,  Lucifer, 
and  the  angels  that  fell  with  him  into  Hell. 

Carde  Makers.  God  the  Father  creating  Adam  of 
the  slime  of  the  earth,  and  making  Eve  of  the  rib, 
and  inspiring  them  with  the  spirit  of  life. 

Shipwrights.  God  foretelling  Noah  to  make  an 
ark  of  light  wood. 

The  Chester  plays  consist  of  twenty-four  dramas, 
and  annually  performed  till  1577,  each  trade  taking 
one  theme,  as, 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  187 

The  Deluge,  by  the  Dyers. 

Shepherds  feeding  their  flocks  by  night. 

Painters  and  Glaciers. 

The  Temptation,  by  the  Butchers. 

The  Last  Supper,  by  the  Bakers. 

The  Descent  into  Hell,  by  the  Cooks. 

The  Resurrection,  by  the  Skinners. 

The  Ascension,  by  the  Tailors. 

Ezekiel,  by  the  Clothiers. 

Henry  V  was  seen  there  with  his  retinue.  Queen 
Margaret  came  from  Kilyngworth. 

Fishmongers  and  Mariners.  Noah  in  the  ark  with 
his  wife  and  three  children,  and  divers  animals. 

Bukbynders.  Abraham  sacrificing  his  son  Isaac, 
a  ram,  bush,  and  angel 

Lance  Makers.     Judas  hanging  himself. 

Weavers  of  Woolen.  Mary  ascending  with  a  mul 
titude  of  angels.  Eight  Apostles  with  Thomas 
preaching  in  the  desert. 

The  accounts  of  the  various  guilds  contain  entries 
of  sums  paid  for  machinery,  dresses,  etc.,  throwing 
light  on  the  way  in  which  these  pageants  were  rep 
resented  :  "  Herod's  crest  of  iron,  faulchion  for 
Herod,  2  spears  ;  a  staff  for  the  demon,  God's  coat  of 
white  leather,  6  skins ;  2  mitres  for  Cayphas  and 
Annas  ;  4  gowns  and  4  swords  for  the  tormentors  ; 
poleage  for  Pilate's  son." 

In  the  expenses  for  1490,  verbatim,  we  find  that 
even  the  spirit  of  God  was  sometimes  represented  on 


188  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

the  stage  in  human  figure,  although  usually  depicted 
as  a  dove : 

Item  paide  to  the  sprytt  of  God,  xvi  d. 
"  "         "        angelles,  viii  d. 

"        demon,  xvi  d. 

pd  to  Fawston  for  hanging  Judas,  iiizd. 
coc.  croyng,  iiizd. 

Item  for  mendynge  the  develles  cote. 

To  a  peynter  for  peyntyng  Herod's  face. 

New  coats  for  the  souls. 

To  black  souls  and  white  souls. 

These  pure  and  sinful  souls  were  distinguished 
by  black  and  white  coats.  How  the  "  womes  of  con 
science  "  played  their  parts  I  have  failed  to  discover. 
Hell's  mouth  needed  frequent  repairs,  and,  on  one 
occasion,  mention  is  made  of  expenses  consequent  on 
the  conflagration  of  hell  itself.  Some  of  the  entries 
are  droll  enough,  as 

"Paid  for  mending  the  wind,  ix  d."  The  winds 
appear  to  have  been  worked  by  ropes. 

"  Paid  for  a  new  rope  for  the  wind,  16  d." 

We  see  again 

"Paid  for  15  pairs  of  angels'  wings." 

And 

"  Item  paid  for  mending  hell-mouth,  and  for 
keeping  of  fire  at  hell-mouth." 

And  in  1558 

"  Payd  for  setting  the  world  of  fire,  v  d. 

"  Item,  a  hat  for  Pilate." 

"  For  mending  the  devil's  head." 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  189 

Suits  were  occasionally  borrowed,  as  we  learn : 

"  Item  to  reward  Mistress  Grymesby  for  lending 
of  her  gear  for  Pilates  wife,  12  d." 

From  a  few  stage  directions  scattered  here  and 
there  through  the  manuscripts  of  the  mysteries  now 
extant,  it  would  appear  that  the  stage  machinery 
by  which  a  part  of  the  effect  was  produced,  must 
have  been  elaborate,  both  ingenious  and  expensive. 
The  collective  paraphernalia  of  acting,  the  stage, 
actors,  and  stage  machinery  were  called  a  pageant. 
The  players  received  liberal  wages  ;  handsome  young 
men  took  the  part  of  women.  Independent  of  a 
liberal  allowance  of  food  they  consumed  almost  in 
credible  quantities  of  beer  at  rehearsals,  at  intervals 
in  performances,  and  every  corner  on  the  street 
where  the  pageant  happened  to  stop. 

Each  guild  had  its  own  pageant,  and  performed 
its  own  play  at  its  own  expense.  For  instance,  "  The 
Hall  of  Lucifer,"  was  always  performed  by  tanners. 
Their  stage,  on  a  large  wagon,  was  drawn  early  in 
the  morning  in  front  of  the  gates  of  the  Abbey,  then 
wheeled  to  the  High  Cross  in  front  of  the  mayor's 
house,  and  so  through  the  different  streets.  The 
wagons  of  the  various  guilds  separated  at  the  ap 
pointed  places  of  exhibition,  and  every  company  or 
trade  repeated  its  own  play  at  all  the  important  sta 
tions,  so  that  the  populace  could  see  the  grand  dis 
play.  These  were  performed  at  Easter,  Whitsuntide, 
or  Christmas. 


190  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

These  plays  sometimes  lasted  eight  days,  and 
were  announced  some  time  before  by  a  herald  in 
what  was  called  "  The  Proemium  "  or  prologue,  giv 
ing  to  each  guild  their  task  with  earnest  appeals  to 
each  to  do  their  best,  with  "  good  speech,  fine  play 
ers,  and  apparel  comely,"  ending: 

"  A  Sunday  next,  if  that  we  may, 
At  VI  of  the  belle,  we  gynne  our  play 
In  Noman  town  wherefore  we  pray 
That  God  now  be  your  spede.      AMEN." 

THE  PROEMIUM. 

Reverende  lordes  and  ladyes  all, 

That  at  this  tyme  here  assembled  bee, 

By  this  messeinge  understande  you  shall, 

That  some  tymes  there  was  mayor  of  this  citie 

Sir  John  Amvay,  Knighte,  who  moste  worthelye 

Contented  hymselfe  to  sett  out  in  playe 

The  devise  of  one  Dove  Rondall,  moonke  of  Chester  Abbey. 

This  moonke,  moonke-like  in  Scriptures  well  seen, 

In  storyes  travelled  with  the  beste  sorte, 

In  pagentes  set  fourth  apparently  to  all  eyne, 

The  olde  andnewe  Testament,  with  livelye  comforth, 

Interminglinge  therewith,  onely  to  make  sporte, 

Some  thinges,  not  warranted  by  any  weilt, 

Which  to  gladd  the  hearers  he  woulde  me'n  to  take  yt. 

This  matter  he  abbrevited  with  playes  twenty-four, 

And  every  playe  of  the  matter  gave  but  a  taste, 

Leavinge  for  better  learninge  the  scircumstance  to  accomplishe. 

For  all  his  proceedings  maye  appear  to  be  in  hasti, 

Yet  altogether  unprofitable  his  labor  he  did  not  wasti, 

For  at  this  daye  and  ever  he  deserveth  the  fame 

Which  all  monkes  deserves,  professinge  that  name. 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  191 

This  worthy  Knighti  Amvay,  then  mayor  of  this  citie, 

This  order  toke,  as  declare  to  you  I  shall, 

That  by  twentye-four  occupations,  artes,   craftes,  or  misterie 

These  pagentes  shoulde  be  played,  after  breef  rehearsall. 

For  every  pagente,  a  cariage  to  be  provyded  withall  ; 

In  which  sorte,  we  porpose,  this  Whitsontyde, 

Our  pageantes  into  three  partes  to  divide. 

Nowe,  you  worshippfull  tanners  that  of  custome  olde 
The  fall  of  Lucifer  did  set  out, 

Some  writers  awarrante  your  matter  theirfore  be  boulde, 
Ersletye  to  play  the  same  to  all  the  vorowtte. 

Your  shew-let-bee 
Good  speech,  fyne  players,  with  appariellcomelye, 

Of  the  drapers  you  the  wealthy  companye 

The  creation  of  the  worlde.     Adam  and  Eve, 

According  to  your  wealth,  set  out  wealthilye 

And  howe  Cayne  his  brother  Abell,  his  life  did  bereave. 

The  good,  symple  water  leaders  and  drawers  of  Dee 

See  that  your  ark  in  all  poyntes  be  prepared  ; 

Of  Noe  and  his  children  the  wholl  storye 

And  of  the  universall  floude,  by  you  shall  be  played. 


Cappers  and  lynnen  drapers,  see  that  you  forth  bring, 
In  well  decked  order,  that  worthy  storie, 
Of  Balaam  and  his  asse,  and  of  Balaak  the  king 
Make  the  asse  to  speak  and  sett  yt  out  livelye. 

The  sacred  dramas  at  Coventry  drew  immense 
multitudes,  and  the  exhibitions  were  patronized  by 
royalty. 

Henry  V  was  seen  there  with  his  retinue. 
Queen  Margaret  came  from  Killingworth,  having 


192  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

with  her  lords  and  ladies.  Richard  III  honored  the 
Corpus  Christi  plays,  also  Henry  VII.  Before  the 
suppression  of  the  monasteries,  the  Grey  Friars  of 
Coventry  were  celebrated  for  their  exhibitions  on 
Corpus  Christi  day,  their  pageants  being  acted  with 
mighty  state  and  reverence  in  theaters  placed  on 
wheels  and  drawn  to  all  the  important  streets  of  the 
city. 

Queen  Elizabeth  was  particularly  fond  of  pa 
geants  of  all  kinds  and  ~ was  often  entertained  by 
miracle  plays. 

Carew,  a  writer  of  her  time,  said  that  for  repre 
senting  the  Scripture  history  they  raised  an  amphi 
theater  in  some  open  field,  with  a  diameter  of  50 
feet.  The  country  people  flock  from  all  sides  many 
miles  off,  to  see  and  hear  it ;  for  they  have  therein 
devils  and  devices  to  delight  the  eye  as  the  ear. 

Yet  all  was  not  splendor  and  amusement  in  the 
lives  of  the  mystery-players.  The  profession  of  an 
actor,  even  in  those  days,  was  a  laborious  one.  The 
great  parts,  those  that  were  the  most  ardently 
sought  after,  imposed  a  degree  of  toil  and  fatigue  on 
those  who  accepted  them  whereof  few  men  would 
be  capable  to-day.  For  instance,  Christ,  in  certain 
of  the  passion  plays  had  over  4,000  lines  to  recite, 
and  the  crucifixion  on  the  stage,  as  was  remarked, 
lasted  as  long  as  in  the  reality.  The  actor,  sus 
pended  to  the  cross  in  a  state  of  almost  total  nudity, 
recited  in  that  situation  some  300  or  400  lines.  In 
1437  the  cure,  Nicolle,  while  impersonating  the 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  193 

Saviour  in  a  passion  play,  came  near  dying  on  the 
cross  in  good  earnest,  from  sheer  fatigue  and  ex 
haustion.  In  the  same  play  the  representative  of 
Judas  hung  himself  in  such  a  realistic  fashion  that 
he  became  insensible,  and  was  nearly'  dead  when 
taken  down,  so  that  his  fellow-actors  were  forced  to 
"  carry  him  into  a  neighboring  spot,  there  to  rub 
him  with  vinegar  and  other  restoratives."  Some 
times  the  parts,  when  of  great  length,  were  played 
by  three  or  four  actors  each,  and  this  was  especially 
the  case  when  the  personage  to  be  represented  was 
shown  at  different  stages  of  his  or  her  career. 
Thus,  three  actors  were  often  charged  with  the  role 
of  the  Holy  Virgin,  one  impersonating  her  as  a 
child,  another  as  a  young  girl,  and  the  third  as  a 
woman  of  mature  age. 

The  last  miracle  play  represented  in  England 
was  that  of  (<  Christ's  Passion,"  in  the  reign  of  James 
ist,  on  Good  Friday,  at  night,  at  which  there  were 
thousands  present. 

The  people  of  the  Middle  Ages  from  the  very 
fact  that  their  existence  was  more  monotonous  than 
that  of  the  people  of  the  present  day,  were  all  the 
more  ready  to  seize  an  opportunity  for  amusement, 
and  the  solemn  representations  of  the  mysteries 
were  among  their  most  cherished  enjoyments.  The 
entrance  of  the  king  or  queen  into  a  town,  the  birth 
of  a  prince  or  princess,  the  court  festivals,  as  well  as 
the  ecclesiastical  solemnities,  and  the  feasts  of  the 
church,  were  an  excuse  for  these  popular  spectacles. 


194  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

The  representations,  prepared  a  long  time  before 
hand,  were  announced  by  the  public  crier,  like  the 
royal  and  municipal  decrees,  at  the  most  frequented 
places  of  the  town.  The  spectators,  who  did  not 
have  to  pay  anything  for  witnessing  the  play,  did 
not  seat  themselves  promiscuously,  but  each  person 
according  to  his  rank  and  station.  The  nobles  or 
dignitaries  occupied  platforms,  upon  which,  as  the 
representations  lasted  a  long  time,  they  sometimes 
had  their  meals  served,  like  the  old  Romans,  upon 
the  balconies  of  the  amphitheater  or  circus.  The 
lower  classes  occupied  places,  either  seated  or  stand 
ing,  upon  the  bare  earth  or  the  pavement,  as  the 
case  might  be,  the  men  being  to  the  right  and  the 
women  to  the  left,  the  same  as  in  church.  The 
locaj  clergy,  in  order  to  let  their  congregations  have 
an  opportunity  of  witnessing  the  whole  spectacle, 
advanced  or  put  back  the  hour  of  service.  In  fact, 
the  fondness  of  the  public  for  these  spectacles  was  so 
great  that  the  houses  were  left  almost  deserted,  and 
armed  watchmen  paced  the  silent  streets  to  protect 
the  property  of  the  inhabitants,  while  the  represent 
ation  was  taking  place.  No  permanent  theaters  at 
that  time. 

Geo.  McDonald  finds  a  good  deal  of  poetic  worth 
scattered  through  these  plays,  and  quotes  a  scene 
from  the  "  Fall  of  Man." 

Here  are  parts  of  Eve's  lamentation  when  con 
scious  of  the  death  that  has  laid  hold  upon  her : 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  195 

1 '  Alas  that  ever  that  speech  was  spoken 

That  the  false  angel  said  unto  me  ! 
Alas  !  our  maker's  bidding  is  broken, 

For  I  have  touched  his  own  dear  tree. 
Our  fleshly  eyes  are  all  unlokyn, 

Naked  for  sin  ourself  we  see  ; 
That  sorry  apple  that  we  have  tokyn, 

To  death  hath  brought  my  spouse  and  me." 

When  the  voice  of  God  is  heard  saying : 

"  Adam,  that  with  my  hands  I  made, 
Where  art  thou  now  ?    What  hast  thou  wrought  ?" 

Adam  replies  in  two  lines,  containing  the  whole 
truth  of  man's  spiritual  condition  ever  since : 

' '  Ah  Lord  !  for  sin  our  flowers  do  fade  ; 
I  hear  thy  voice,  but  I  see  thee  nought." 

Notice  the  quaint  simplicity  of  the  words  of  God 
to  the  woman  :  , 

"  Unwise  woman,  say  me  why 
That  thou  hast  done  this  foul  folly, 
And  I  made  thee  a  great  lady 
In  Paradise  for  to  play  ?  " 

Eve  laments  bitterly,  and   at   length   offers  her 
throat  to  her  husband,  praying  him  to  strangle  her : 

' '  Now  stumble  we  on  stalk  and  stone  ; 
My  wit  away  from  me  has  gone  ; 
Writhe  on  to  my  neck-bone 
With  hardness  of  thine  hand." 

Adam  replies : 

' '  Wife,  thy  wit  is  not  worth  a  rush  !  " 


196  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

The  scene  ends  with  these  words  from  Eve : 

"Alas  that  ever  we  wrought  this  sin  ! 
Our  bodily  sustenance  for  to  win, 
Ye  must  delve  and  I  shall  spin, 
In  care  to  lead  our  life." 

In  the  "  Woman  Taken  in  Sin "  there  is  a 
remarkable  tradition  that  each  of  the  woman's 
accusers,  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  thought  Jesus  was 
writing  his  individual  sins  on  the  ground. 

The  Accuser  — 

"  Alas  for  sorrow  mine  heart  doth  bleed, 
All  my  sins  yon  man  did  write  ; 
If  that  my  fellows  to  them  took  heed, 
I  cannot  me  from  death  acquite, 
I  would  I  were  hid  somewhere  out  of  sight, 
That  men  I  should  me  nowhere  see  nor  know, 
If  I  be  taken  I  am  aflyght, 
In  mekyl  shame  I  shall  be  throne." 

Two  volumes  of  the  ancient  Cornish  drama 
exist,  in  Celtic  dialect,  once  spoken  in  Cornwall,  and 
of  greater  merit  than  all  the  other  remains  of  the 
language  taken  together;  its  antiquity  is  its  chief 
value. 

Subjects,  as  usual : 

The  Beginning  of  the  World. 

Passion  of  Our  Lord. 

Resurrection. 

Then  God  the  Father  shall  go  to  heaven,  and 
afterwards  the  devil,  like  a  serpent,  speaks  to  Eve  in 
the  tree  of  knowledge,  and  he  says  wickedly  to  Eve : 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  197 

Eve,  why  dost  thou  not  come  near? 

To  speak  with  me  and  talk  ? 

One  thing  which  I  know  if  thou  knewest  it, 

It  would  amuse  thee, 

Forever  thou  wouldst  laugh 

For  joy  and  for  mirth. 
As  thou  earnest  into  the  world, 
To  heaven  thou  wouldst  ascend. 

Eve. 

What  thing  can  that  be 
Tell  me  directly. 

Devi  . 

From  heaven  I  come  now, 
Sweet  Eve,  to  better  thy  condition. 
The  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
Eat,  never  make  a  difficulty. 

Eve. 

I  am  outside  (puzzled)  thinking 

What  I  may  do 

As  to  plucking  the  apple 

For  fear  of  being  deceived  by  thee. 

At  last  she  gathers  the  apple  and    carries  it  to 
Adam,  saying : 

Adam,  reach  me  thy  hand  : 
Take  that  from  me, 
Quietly  without  blowing  thy  horn, 
Eat  it  immediately. 

Adam. 

Speak  to  me,  thou  woman, 
Where  didst  thou  gather  the  fruit  ? 
Was  it  of  that  same  sort 
Which  was  forbidden  to  us  ? 


198  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

Eve. 

When  I  was  walking  about 

I  heard  on  one  side 

An  angel  beginning  to  sing 

Above  me  on  the  tree, 

He  did  advise  me 

That  I  should  gather  fruit  from  it ; 

Greater  than  God  we  should  be, 

Nor  be  troubled  forever. 

A  dam. 

Oh  !  out  upon  thee,  wicked  woman. 
That  thou  listenedst  to  him, 
For  he  was  an  evil  bird 
Whom  thou  didst  hear  singing. 
And  will  bring  us  to  sorrow 
Unless  we  do  refrain. 
Let  every  one  think  on  the  end  of  it 
How  it  can  end. 

Eve. 

Since  thou  wilt  not  believe, 

Thou  shalt  lose  my  love 

Ever  whilst  thou  livest, 

Here  thou  shalt  not  see^-me  again. 

Eve,  rather  than  thou  be  angry, 
I  will  do  all  as  thou  wishest, 
Bring  it  to  me  immediately 
And  I  will  eat  it. 

Madam  D.  Arblay  has  an  interesting  account  of 
an  interview  with  an  entertaining  Mr.  Bryant,  who, 
after  giving  two  or  three  amusing  anecdotes  such  as 
the  comic  slip-slops  of  the  first  Lord  Baltimore  who 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  199 

said,  "  I  have  been  upon  a  little  excoriation  to  see  a 
ship  lanced,  and  there  is  not  a  finer  going-  vessel 
upon  the  face  of  God's  y earth  ;  you've  no  idiom  how 
well  it  sailed,"  spoke  next  of  the  mysteries  or  origin 
of  our  theatrical  entertainments,  and  repeated  the 
plan  and  conduct  of  several  of  those  strange  compo 
sitions,  in  particular  one  he  remembered  which  was 
called  "  Noah's  Ark,"  and  in  which  that  patriarch 
and  his  sons,  just  previous  to  the  deluge,  made  it  all 
their  delight  to  speed  themselves  into  the  ark  with 
out  Mrs.  Noah,  whom  they  wished  to  escape ;  but 
she  surprised  them  just  as  they  had  embarked,  and 
made  so  prodigious  a  racket  against  the  door  that 
after  a  long  and  violent  contention  she  forced  them 
to  open  it,  and  gained  admission,  having  first  con 
tented  them  by  being  kept  out  till  she  was  thor 
oughly  wet  to  the  skin.  These  most  eccentric  and 
unaccountable  dramas  filled  up  the  chief  of  our 
conversation,  and  whether  to  consider  them  most 
with  laughter,  as  ridiculous,  or  with  horror,  as  blas 
phemous,  remains  a  doubt  I  cannot  well  solve. 

Noah  is  the  type  of  a  henpecked  husband,  and  his 
wife  of  a  loud-voiced  shrew,  in  all  the  plays  I  have 
seen. 

A  CHESTER  PLAY. 


THE    DELUGE. 


Manne  that  I  made,  I  will  destroy  ; 

Beast,  worme,  andfoule  to  flie, 
For  on  earth  they  doe  me  noye 

The  folke  yt  is  thereon. 


200  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

For  it  harmes  me  so  hartfullie 
The  malyce  now  that  can  multiply, 

That  sore  me  greves,  inwardlie, 
That  ever  I  made  manne. 

Therefore,  Noe,  my  servant  free, 
That  righteous  man  art,  as  I  see, 

A  shipp  sone  thou  shalt  make  the 
Of  trees  drye  and  light. 

Destroyed  all  the  world  shall  be 
Save  thou,  thy  wife,  thy  sonnes  three 

And  all  their  wives,  also  with  the, 
Shall  saved  be  for  thy  sake. 

Noe. 

Ah,  Lord  !  I  thank  the  lowd  and  still, 

That  to  me  art  in  such  will ; 

And  spares  me  and  my  house  to  spill, 

As  now  I  and  othlie  find. 
Thy  bydding,  Lord,  I  shall  fulfill, 
And  never  more  the  greeve,  ne  grill, 
That  suche  grace  has  sent  me  till 

Among  all  mankinde. 

Have  done  you  men  and  women  all ; 
Helpe,  for  ought  that  may  befall, 
To  worke  this  shipp,  chamber  and  hall, 
As  God  hath  bydden  us  doe. 

Sent. 

Father,  I  am  already  bowne, 
Anne  axe  I  have,  by  my  crowne, 
As  sharpe  as  any  in  all  this  towne, 
For  to  goe  thereto. 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  201 

Ham. 

I  have  a  hatchet  wonder  kene, 
To  byte  well,  as  may  be  scene 
A  better  grounder,  as  I  wene, 
Is  not  in  all  this  towne. 

Japhet. 

And  I  can  well  make  a  pyn, 
And  with  this  hammer  knocke  it  in  ; 
Goe  and  worche,  without  more  dyme, 
And  I  am  ready  bowne. 

Wife  of  Noah. 

And  we  shall  bring  timber,  too, 
For  women  nothing  els  doe  ; 
Women  be  weak  to  undergoe, 
Any  great  travayle. 

Each  of  the  wives  offered  to  assist ;  Japhet's  most 
practical  of  the  four,  cried : 

"  And  I  will  gather  shippes  here, 
To  make  a  fire  for  you  in  feere, 
And  for  to  dight  your  dynner, 
Against  you  come  in." 

Noe. 

Now,  in  the  name  of  God,  I  will  begin 
To  make  the  shippe  that  we  shall  in, 
That  we  be  ready  for  to  swym 
At  the  coming  of  the  floode. 
These  boards  I  joyne  together, 
To  keep  us  safe  from  the  wedder, 
That  we  may  rome  both  hither  and  thider, 
And  safe  be  from  this  floode. 
Of  this  tree  will  I  have  the  mast, 
Tyde  with  gables  that  will  last ; 
With  a  sayle  yarde  for  each  blaste, 
And  each  thing  in  the  kinde. 


202  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

But  now  comes  trouble,  for  Noah's  wife  is  disin 
clined  to  enter.     Noah  says : 

"  Wife,  in  this  castle  we  shall  be  keped, 
My  childer  and  thou  would  in  leaped." 

She  answers : 

"  In  faith,  Noah,  I  had  as  lief  thou  had  slipped  for  all  thy  frankish 

fare. 
For  I  will  not  doe  after  thy  red." 

Noe. 

Good  wife,  doe  as  I  the  bydd. 

Noah's  Wife. 

By  Christ,  not ;  or  I  see  more  neede, 
Though  thou  stand  all  the  day  and  rave. 

Noe. 

Lord,  that  women  be  crabbed,  aye  ! 
And  never  are  meke,  that  dare  I  saye. 
This  is  well  sene  by  me  to  daye, 
In  witness  of  you  each  one. 
Good  wife,  let  be  all  this  beere 
That  thou  makes  in  this  place  here 
For  all  they  wene  thou  art  master  ; 
And  so  thou  art,  by  St.  John. 

Then  God  gives    His  commands  for  filling  the 
ark,  and  adds : 

Forty  days  and  forty  nightes, 
Rayne  shall  fall  for  their  unrightes, 
And  that  I  have  made  through  my  mighte, 
Now  thinke  I  to  destroy. 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  203 

Noah. 

Lord,  at  youre  byddinge  I  am  bayne 

Sith  none  other  grace  will  gayne. 

Hel  will  I  fulfil  fayne, 

For  gracious  I  the  fynde. 

A  hundred  wynters  and  twenty 

This  shipp  making  tarried  have  I. 

If,  through  amendment,  any  mercye 

Wolde  fall  unto  mankinde. 

Have  done,  you  men  and  women  all  ; 

Hye  you,  lest  this  water  fall, 

That  each  beast  were  in  his  stall, 

And  into  ship  broughte. 

Of  clean  beasts  seaven  shall  be, 

Of  unclean,  two,  this  God  bade  me. 

This  flood  is  nye  well  may  we  see, 

Therefore  tarry  you  nought. 

Shem. 

Sir,  here  are  lions,  leopards  in, 
Horses,  mares,  oxen,  and  swyne, 
Goates,  calves,  sheepe,  and  kine, 
Here  sitten  thou  may  see. 

Ham. 

Camels,  asses,  men  may  find, 
Buck,  doe,  harte,  and  hind, 
And  beastes  of  all  manner  kinde, 
Here  been,  as  thinks  me. 

Japhet. 

Take  here  cats  and  dogs,  too, 
Otter,  fox,  fulmart,  also  ; 
Hares,  hopping  gaylie,  can  yee 
Have  cowle  hae  for  to  eate. 


204  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

Noah's  Wife. 
And  here  are  beares,  wolfes  sett, 
Apes,  owles,  marmoset ; 
Weesells,  squirrels,  and  ferret, 
Here  they  eaten  .fcheir  meate. 

Wife  of  Shem. 

Yet  more  beasts  are  in  this  house, 
Here  catles  maken  in  full  crowse  ; 
Here  a  ratten,  here  a  mouse, 
They  stand  nye  together. 

Wife  of  Ham. 

And  here  are  f owles  less  and  more, 
Hearns,  cranes,  and  bittour, 
Swans,  peacocks,  have  them  before 
Meate  for  this  wedder. 

Wife  ofjaphet. 
Here  are  cocks,  kites,  crowes, 
Rookes,  ravens,  many  rowes, 
Cuckoos,  curlews,  whoso  knows 
Each  one  in  his  kinde. 
And  here  are  doves,  diggs,  drakes, 
Redshankes,  running  through  the  lakes  ; 
And  each  fowle  that  ledden  makes, 
In  this  ship  men  may  find. 

In  the  stage  directions,  the  sons  of  Noah  are  en 
joined  to  mention  aloud  the  names  of  the  animals 
which  enter,  a  representation  of  which,  painted  on 
parchment,  is  to  be  carried  by  the  actors. 

Noah  then  speaks  : 

"  Wife,  come  in,  why  standes  thou  there  ? 
Thou  art  ever  forward  that  dare,  I  swear  ; 
Come  on  God's  half,  tyme  that  were, 
For  feare  lest  that  we  drown." 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  205 

NoaKs    Wife. 

Yea,  Sir,  set  up  your  sail, 

And  row  forth  with  evil  heale, 

For,  without  any  fayle, 

I  will  not  out  of  this  towne. 

But  I  have  my  gossips  every  one. 

One  foot  further  I  will  not  gone. 

They  shall  not  drown,  by  St.  John  ! 

And  I  may  save  their  life. 

They  loved  me  full  well,  by  Christ ! 

But  thou  will  let  them  in  thy  chist ; 

Else  row  forth,  Noah,  whither  thou  list, 

And  get  thee  a  new  wife. 

Noah. 

Shem,  some  loe  thy  mother  is  wraw  ; 
Forsooth,  such  another  I  do  not  know  ! 

Shem. 

Father,  I  shall  set  her  in,  I  trow, 

Without  any  fayle. 

Mother,  my  father  after  thee  send, 

And  bids  thee  into  yonder  ship  wend. 

Look  up  and  see  the  wind, 

For  we  be  ready  to  sail. 

Noah's    Wife. 

Son,  go  again  to  him  and  say, 
I  will  not  come  therein  to-day. 

Noah. 

Come  in,  wife,  in  twenty  devill's  way, 
Or  else  stand  without. 

Ham. 
Shall  we  all  fetch  her  in  ? 


206  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

Noah. 

Yea,  sons,  in  Christ's  blessings  and  mine, 
I  would  you  hied  you  betime, 
For  of  this  flood  I  am  in  doubt. 

Japhet. 

Mother,  we  pray  you  altogether, 
For  we  are  here,  your  childer, 
Come  into  the  ship  for  feare  of  the  wedder, 
For  his  love  that  you  bought. 

Noah's  Wife. 

That  will  I  not  for  your  call, 
But  if  I  have  my  gossips  all. 

Gossip. 

The  flood  comes  in  full  fleeting  fast, 
On  every  side  it  breadeth  in  hast, 
For  fear  of  drowning  I  am  agast. 
Good  gossip,  let  me  come  in  ! 
Or  let  us  drink,  or  we  depart, 
For  often  times  we  have  done  soe  ; 
For  at  a  time  thou  drinke  a  quart, 
And  so  will  I  or  that  I  go. 

Shem. 

In  faith,  mother,  yet  you  shall, 
Whether  you  will  or  not  !   (Then  he  carries  her  in.) 

Noah. 
Welcome,  wife,  into  this  boat. 

•^ 

Noah's  Wife. 

And  have  thou  that  for  thy  note  ? 

(And  gives  him  a  slap  in  the  face.) 

Noah. 

Ah,  marry  !  this  is  hot. 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  207 

A  modern  writer  gives  the  following  account  of 
a  performance,  called  "  The  Creation  of  the  World," 
at  a  theater  in  Lisbon.  On  our  entrance  we  found 
the  theater  nearly  filled  with  well-dressed  people, 
the  front  row  of  boxes  full  of  ladies  most  superbly 
and  tastefully  dressed,  their  hair  in  braids  and  orna 
mented  with  a  profusion  of  diamonds  and  artificial 
flowers,  without  caps,  and,  upon  the  whole,  making  a 
very  brilliant  appearance.  .  .  .  When  the  curtain 
drew  up  we  saw  the  Eternal  Father  descend  in  a 
cloud  with  a  long,  white  beard,  with  a  great  number 
of  lights  and  angels  around  him.  He  then  gave 
orders  for  the  creation  of  the  world.  Over  his  head 
was  drawn  an  equilateral-triangle  as  an  emblem  of 
the  Trinity.  The  next  scene  presented  us  with  the 
serpent  tempting  Eve  to  eat  the  apple  and  his  in 
fernal  majesty  (the  prince  of  darkness)  paid  the 
most  exaggerated  enconiums  to  her  beauty,  in  order 
to  engage  her  to  eat,  which  as  soon  as  he  had  done 
and  persuaded  Adam  to  do  the  same,  there  came  a 
most  terrible  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  with  a 
dance  of  infernal  spirits  with  the  devil  in  the  midst, 
dressed  in  black  with  scarlet  stockings,  and  a  gold- 
laced  hat  on  his  head.  While  the  dance  was  per 
forming,  a  voice  frorh  behind  the  scenes  pronounced 
in  a  hoarse  and  solemn  manner,  the  word  "  Jesus," 
on  which  the  devils  immediately  vanished  in  a  cloud 
of  smoke. 

After  this,  the  Eternal  Father  descended  in 
great  wrath,  without  any  attendant,  and  called  for 


208  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

Noah  (who,  bye  the  bye,  we  were  much  surprised  to 
see  as  we  did  not  know  before  that  he  was  at  that 
time  in  existence ;  however,  appear  he  did),  who, 
when  he  appeared,  the  Eternal  Father  told  him  he 
was  sorry  he  had  created  such  a  set  of  ungrateful 
scoundrels,  and  that,  for  their  wickedness,  he  intended 
to  drown  them  altogether.  Here,  Noah  interceded  for 
them,  and  at  last,  it  was  agreed  that  he  should  build 
an  ark,  and  he  was  ordered  to  go  to  the  king's  dock 
yard  in  Lisbon,  and  there  he  would  see  John  Gon- 
zalvez,  the  master  builder,  for  he  preferred  him  to 
either  the  French  or  English  builders  (this  produced 
great  applause).  The  Eternal  Father  then  went  up 
to  Heaven,  and  Noah  to  build  his  ark. 

It  was  from  such  a  play  as  this  (called  Adam  and 
Eve)  that  Milton,  when  he  was  in  Italy,  is  said  to 
have  taken  the  first  hint  for  his  "  Paradise  Lost." 

In  the  play  of  "  The  Creation,"  as  seen  in  Ger 
many  about  1783,  light  was  produced  by  a  stupid 
looking  Capuchin  in  full  bottomed  wig,  and  a  brocade 
morning  gown  worn  over  his  own  rusty  dress,  who, 
groping  peevishly  about  in  the  dark,  pushed  the  tap 
estry  right  and  left,  disclosing  a  glimmer  through 
linen  cloths  from  candles  placed  behind  them.  The 
sea  was  created  by  pouring  water  on  the  stage,  and 
the  land  by  mould  thrown  on.  Angels  were  per 
sonated  by  girls  and  young  priests  in  masquerade 
costumes,  with  the  wings  of  geese  clumsily  fastened 
to  their  shoulders.  These  nondescript  angels  (celes 
tial  poultry),  as  Coleridge  would  call  them,  actively 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  209 

assisted  the  character  in  the  flowered  dressing  gown 
in  producing  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars. 

To  represent  the  brute  creation,  cattle  were  driven 
on  the  stage,  with  a  horse  (well  shod),  and  two  pigs, 
with  rings  in  their  noses.  Adam  and  Eve  were  even 
more  grotesque,  and  an  ill-trained  mastiff  with  a  big 
brass  collar,  regaled  himself  upon  the  beef  bone 
which  had  done  duty  as  the  extracted  rib.  And  the 
narrator  of  all  this  says  that  there  was  no  laughter 
among  the  audience,  but  it  was  entered  into  most 
seriously,  with  credulity  and  reverence. 

As  a  marked  improvement  on  these  ancient  per 
formances,  the  theater  of  Strasburg  in  1816  exhib 
ited  scenes  from  the  life  of  Christ  from  the  best  pic 
tures  of  the  great  masters.  Not  a  word  was  spoken, 
but  music  of  the  highest  order,  instrumental  and 
vocal,  added  greatly  to  the  impressiveness  of  the 
representation.  Dr.  Burney  says,  it  is  certain  that 
the  modern  tragedy  is  taken  from  the  mysteries, 
and  that  the  Oratorio  is  only  a  mystery  or  morality 
in  music.  The  Oratorio  commenced  with  the  priests 
of  the  Oratory,  a  brotherhood  at  Rome  in  1 540,  who 
set  sacred  stories  to  music  to  draw  young  people  to 
church,  and  shrewdly  left  one-half  to  be  performed 
after  the  sermon,  so  that  they  gained  many  listeners. 

Collier  tells  us  that  a  miracle  play  is  still  ex 
hibited  at  Gloucestershire  at  Christmas,  with  the  char 
acters  of  Herod,  Beelzebub,  etc.  Victor  Hugo,  in 
the  "  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame,"  furnishes  a  vivid 
study  of  the  performance  of  a  miracle  play  in  the 


210  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

middle  ages,  when  they  had  lost  their  hold  on  the 
people.  It  was  an  utter  failure.  Madame  Calderon 
De  La  Barca,  wife  of  the  Mexican  consul,  gives  in 
the  second  volume  of  her  interesting  story  of  "  Two 
Years  in  Mexico  "  an  account  of  a  religious  drama 
performed  on  Good  Friday  at  Coyohnacan  (Cuyacan), 
evidently  an  imitation  of  the  old  miracle  plays.  She 
says  at  the  close  there  was  no  drunkenness  or  quar 
relling  or  confusion  of  any  sort.  An  occasional 
hymn  rising  in  the  silence  of  the  air,  or  the  distant 
flashing  of  a  hundred  lights,  alone  gave  notice  that 
the  funeral  procession  of  the  Saviour  had  not  yet 
halted  for  the  night ;  but  there  was  no  noise,  not 
even  mirth.  Everything  was  conducted  with  a 
sobriety  befitting  the  event  that  was  celebrated. 

We  were  told  an  anecdote  concerning  Simon, 
the  Cyrenian,  which  is  not  bad.  A  man  was  taken 
up  in  one  of  the  villages  as  a  vagrant  and  desired 
by  the  justices  to  give  an  account  of  himself  —  to 
explain  why  he  was  always  wandering  about,  and 
had  no  employment.  The  man,  with  the  greatest 
indignation  replied,  "  No  employment.  I  am  sub 
stitute  Cyrenian  at  Cuyacan  in  the  Holy  Week !  " 

Her  husband  prepared  a  series  of  critical  treatises 
on  the  religious  dramas  of  Spain. 

The  Tyrolese  entertain  a  passionate  love  for  the 
mimic  art.  In  that  chatty  book,  "  Gadding  with  a 
Primitive  People,"  I  find  that  they  still  have  a 
yearly  "  Passion  Play,"  on  a  small  scale  and  in  a  way 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  211 

that  seems  horridly  irreverent  to  us.  A  large  store 
was  made  Jehovah's  throne,  a  few  years  since,  and 
some  boys  kindled  a  fire  and  drove  the  actor  down. 
In  South  Germany,  Tyrol  was  undoubtedly  the 
cradle  of  the  mystery  and  miracle  plays. 

One  of  the  most  telling  traits  illustrating  the  age 
of  these  plays,  and  which  it  is  difficult  to  rhyme 
with  the  strict  religious  sense  peculiar  to  these 
people,  is  the  seemingly  irreligious  intermingling  of 
the  most  commonplace  events  of  every-day  life  with 
sacred  episodes  and  saintly  personages.  Ere  we 
harshly  criticise  this  feature,  we  must  remember 
that  the  native  looks  upon  it  in  quite  a  different 
light  than  we  should  —  as  a  part  of  his  belief. 

The  people,  simple-hearted  and  full  of  reverent 
faith  in  the  Bible,  delighted  in  seeing  the  person 
ages  they  had  heard  about  in  the  churches,  whose 
words  they  had  so  often  heard,  whose  images  they 
had  devoutly  contemplated. 

Protestantism  wrested  from  Faith  a  large  share 
of  her  working  material,  and  had  little  favor  for  a 
light  treatment  of  solemn  subjects. 

And  in  the  i$th  century  the  miracles  and  mys 
teries  were  condemned  and  left  behind  by  the  new 
secular  culture,  which  only  smiled  at  the  artless 
effort  to  portray  supernatural  events.  Thencefor 
ward  the  stage,  which  has  for  its  office  to  typify  the 
world,  has  been  erected  far  apart  from  the  church. 

Says  Hudson,  "  We  can  hardly  do  justice  either 
to  the  authors  or  to  the  audiences  of  these  religious 


212  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

comedies,  there  being  an  almost  impassable  gulf 
fixed  between  their  thoughts  and  ours.  They  were 
really  quite  innocent  of  the  evils  which  we  see  and 
feel  in  what  was  so  entertaining  to  them." 

John  Stuart  Mill  speaks  of  "  the  childlike  char 
acter  of  the  religious  sentiment  of  a  rude  people, 
who  know  terror,  but  not  awe,  and  are  often  on  the 
most  intimate  terms  of  familiarity  with  the  objects 
of  their  adoration." 

Those  exhibitions,  so  rude  and  revolting  to  mod 
ern  taste  and  decorum,  were  full  of  religion  and 
honest  delectation  to  the  simple  minds  who  wit 
nessed  them,  and  without  doubt  they  contained  the 
germ  of  that  splendid  dramatic  growth  with  which 
the  literature  and  life  of  England  are  now  adorned. 

Yet  some  deny  any  connection  between  the  mod 
ern  drama  and  miracle  plays. 

There  is  a  close  similarity  between  the  Persian 
and  the  mediseval  miracle  play.  It  is  the  same  thing 
sprung  in  the  same  soil,  for  the  Parsees  are  true 
Aryan  builders,  and  a  real  drama  always  sprouts 
where  you  find  indigenous,  unconscious  building  of 
the  first  order,  which  the  Persian  buildings  from 
Persepolis  to  Hatra  are. 

Matthew  Arnold  has  written  of  tl:e  "  Persian 
Passion  Play,7'  enacted  annually  even  now,  "  far 
away  in  that  wonderful  East,  from  which  whatever 
airs  of  superiority  Europe  may  justly  give  itself,  all 
our  religion  has  come,  and  where  religion  of  some 
sort  or  other  has  still  an  empire  over  men's  feelings 
such  as  it  has  nowhere  else." 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  213 

All,  the  Lion  of  God,  Mahomet's  young  cousin, 
the  first  person  who,  after  his  wife,  believed  in  him 
was  assassinated.  His  two  sons,  Hassan  and 
Hussein,  also  suffered  in  the  same  way  at  Kerbela,  a 
tragedy  so  familiar  to  every  Mahomedan,  and  to  us 
so  little  known. 

"  O  death!  "  cries  the  minstrel  of  Persia,  "  whom 
didst  thou  spare  ?  Were  even  Hassan  and  Hussein, 
those  footstools  of  the  throne  of  God  on  the  seventh 
heaven,  spared  by  thee  ?  No,  thou  madest  them 
martyrs  at  Kerbela." 

Gibbon  tells  us  that  the  tombs  of  Ali  and  his  sons 
have  their  yearly  pilgrims  and  their  tribute  of 
enthusiastic  mourning,  and  they  have  been  made  the 
subject  of  a  national  drama.  The  first  ten  days  of 
the  month  of  Mohassen,  the  anniversary  of  the  mar 
tyrdom  at  Keebela,  are  given  up  to  this  excitement. 
Kings  and  people,  everyone,  is  in  mourning,  and  at 
night  when  the  plays  are  not  going  on,  processions 
keep  passing,  the  air  resounds  with  the  beating  of 
breasts  and  of  litanies  of  O  Hassan,  Hussein,  the 
most  devoted  mourners  slashing  their  faces  and 
bodies  with  knives,  staining  their  white  garments 
with  blood. 

It  seems  as  if  no  one  went  to 'bed,  and  certainly 
no  one  who  went  to  bed  could  sleep.  Confrater 
nities  go  in  procession,  with  a  black  flag  and  torches, 
every  man  with  his  shirt  torn  open,  and  beating 
himself  with  the  right  hand  on  left  shoulder  in 
measured  cadence  to  a  canticle  in  honor  of  the 
martys. 


214  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

Noisiest  of  all  are  the  Berbers.  One  of  their  race 
having  derided  the  family  of  Hassan  in  their  afflic 
tion,  they  now  expiate  their  crime  by  beating 
themselves  with  chains  and  pricking  their  arms 
and  cheeks  with  needles.  So  we  are  carried  back,  on 
this  old  Asiatic  soil,  where  beliefs  and  usages  are 
heaped  layer  upon  layer  and  ruin  upon  ruin,  far  past 
these  martyrs,  past  Mahomedanism,  past  Christianity, 
to  the  priests  of  Baal,  gashing  themselves  with 
knives,  and  to  the  worship  of  Adonis.  The  theaters 
for  this  sacred  drama  are  numerous  and  multiplying. 
Some  hold  300,  some  several  thousand  persons.  At 
Ispahan  the  representations  bring  together  more 
than  20,000  people.  A  vast  walled  parallelogram 
with  brick  platform  or  stage  in  center,  and  this  sur 
rounded  by  black  poles,  joined  at  top  by  horizontal 
rods  from  which  hang  colored  lamps.  An  immense 
awning  protects  the  audience.  Upon  rows  of 
gigantic  masts  are  hung  tiger  and  panther  skins  to 
indicate  the  violent  character  of  the  scenes  to  be 
represented,  also  shields  of  steel  and  of  hippopota 
mus  skin,  and  flags  and  naked  swords.  A  sea  of 
color  and  splendor  meets  the  eye  all  round.  Wood 
work  and  brickwork  disappear  under  cushions,  rich 
carpets,  silk  hangings,  India  muslin  embroidered 
with  silver  and  gold,  shawls  from  Kerman  and  from 
Cashmere ;  there  are  lamps,  lusters  of  colored 
crystal,  mirrors,  Bohemian  and  Venetian  glass,  por 
celain  vases  of  all  degrees  of  magnitude,  from  China 
and  from  Europe,  paintings  in  profusion  every 
where,  an  Arabian  night  scene. 


The  Old  Miracle  Plays  215 

But  there  is  a  marked  contrast  in  the  poverty  of 
scenic  contrivance  and  stage  illusion.  A  copper 
basin  of  water  represents  the  Euphrates  ;  a  heap  of 
chopped  straw  in  a  corner  is  the  sand  of  the  desert 
of  Kerbela.  No  attempt  at  proper  costume.  The 
power  of  the  actors  is  in  their  genuine  sense  of  the 
seriousness  of  the  business  they  are  engaged  in, 
nothing  stilted,  false,  or  conventional.  The  children 
who  appear  are  from  the  principal  families  of  their 
city. 

"  It  is  touching  to  see,"  says  Count  Gobineau, 
"  these  little  things  of  three  or  four  years  old,  dressed 
in  black  gauze  frocks  with  large  sleeves,  and  on  their 
heads  small  round  black  caps,  embroidered  with 
silver  and  gold,  kneeling  beside  the  body  of  the 
actor,  who  represents  the  martyr,  embracing  him 
and  with  their  little  hands  covering  themselves  with 
chopped  straw,  for  sand,  in  sign  of  grief." 

In  the  travels  "  Through  Persia  by  Caravan  "  the 
author  says  :  "  Once  I  showed  a  sketch  of  Kerbela  to 
our  servants  and  to  a  knot  of  bystanders,  telling 
them  what  it  represented.  Immediately  the  picture 
was  in  danger.  All  wished  to  kiss  it,  to  press  it  to 
their  foreheads,  and  cried,  '  Ah  Hassan  !  '  with  an 
expression  of  deep  regret,  more  true  and  tender  in 
the  ardor  of  sincerity  than  one  expects  to  find 
uttered  over  a  grave  which  has  been  closed  for 
twelve  centuries." 

Matthew  Arnold  gives  an  interesting  explana 
tion  of  this  lasting  enthusiasm  for  these  saintly, 


216  The  Old  Miracle  Plays 

gentle,  self-denying  sufferers,  which  puts  into  the 
arid  religion  of  Mahomet  something  of  the  tender 
ness,  emotion,  and  sympathy  which  the  formal  Old 
Testament  conception  of  righteousness  received 
from  the  life  and  deeds  of  Christ  and  his  followers. 
Could  he  wish  for  any  sign  more  convincing  that 
Christ  was  indeed  the  desire  of  all  nations?  So  nee- 
essary  is  what  Christianity  contains,  that  a  powerful 
successful  religion  arises  without,  and  the  missing 
virtue  forces  its  way  in.  The  martyrs  of  Kerbela 
held  aloft  to  the  eyes  of  millions  of  our  race  the 
lesson  so  loved  by  the  sufferer  of  Calvary. 


OUR  EARLY  NEWSPAPER  WITS. 


Just  sixty  minutes  for  a  review  of  the  clever  men 
who  have  made  newspaper  wit  a  thing  to  be  grate 
ful  for.  No  time  will  be  wasted  in  quoting  the 
hackneyed  definitions  of  wit  and  humor  that  usually 
preface  or  rather  make  two-thirds  of  articles  on  this 
subject.  James  Parton  says,  that  a  lecture  differs 
from  every  other  form  of  composition  in  this,  that 
so  many  points,  distinctly  stated  and  emphatically 
made,  must  be  given  in  an  exceedingly  limited  time. 
This  will  be  my  aim  in  bringing  before  you  the 
humorists  of  the  press,  selecting  their  best  sayings 
for  your  amusement.  Seba  Smith  originated  this 
style  of  writing  during  the  administration  of  Andrew 
Jackson,  assuming  to  be  his  special  confidant,  right- 
hand  man  and  occasional  bedfellow,  with  an  ill- 
concealed  envy  of  all  other  political  favorites,  and  an 
honest  hankering  after  the  presidential  chair  for 
himself.  His  letters  under  the  nom  de  phunc  of 
Major  Jack  Downing,  were  declared  by  Lord 
Brougham  to  be  not  merely  humorous,  but  states 
manlike,  and  for  quaintness  and  humor,  originality, 
and  genius,  unequalled  since  the  writing  of  Hudibras. 
They  were  published  in  book  form  in  1834,  and  are 


218  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

now  almost  forgotten,  but  are  still  entertaining.  In 
the  introduction  he  says  :  "  I  only  wish  I  had  gone 
to  school  a  little  more  when  I  was  a  boy,  if  I  had  my 
letters  now  would  make  folks  crawl  all  over ;  but  if 
I  had  been  to  school  all  my  lifetime  I  know  I  never 
could  be  able  to  write  more  honestly  than  I  have.  I 
am  sometimes  puzzled  most  plaguidly  to  git  words 
to  tell  jest  exactly  what  I  think  and  what  I  know, 
and  when  I  git  'em,  I  don't  know  exactly  how  to 
spell  'em,  but  so  long  as  I  git  the  sound  I'll  let  other 
folks  git  the  sense  out,  pretty  much  as  our  old  friend 
down  to  Salem,  who  bilt  a  big  ship  to  go  to  China, 
he  called  her  the  '  Asha.'  Now  there  is  sich  a  thing 
as  folks  knowin'  too  much.  All  the  larned  ones  was 
puzzled  to  know  who  '  Asha  '  \vas,  and  they  never 
would-a-known  to  this  day  what  it  ment  if  the  owner 
of  the  ship  hadn't  tell'd  'em  that  China  was  in  Asha. 
'  Oh !  ah  ! '  says  the  larned  folks,  '  we  see  now,  but 
that  aint  the  way  to  spell  it.'  '  What !  '  says  he,  '  if 
A-s-h-a  don't  spell  Asha,  what  on  earth  does  it  spell  ?  ' 
and  that  stumped  'em." 

Here  is  a  fair  specimen  of  his  style :  "  I  and  the 
gineral  have  got  things  now  pretty  considerable 
snug,  and  it  is  raly  curious  to  see  how  much  more 
easy  and  simple  all  the  public  affairs  go  on,  than  they 
did  a  spell  ago  when  Mr.  Adams  was  president.  If 
it  wasn't  for  Congress  meetin',  we  could  jest  go  about 
pretty  much  where  we  please*d,  and  keep  things 
strait  too  ;  and  I  begin  to  think  now  with  the  gineral, 
that  arter  all,  there  is  no  great  shakes  in  managin 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  219 

the  affairs  of  the  nation.  We  have,  pretty  much  all 
on  us,  ben  joggin'  about  now  since  last  grass,  and 
things  are  jest  as  strait  and  clear  now  as  they  was 
then.  The  gineral  has  nigh  upon  made  up  his  mind 
that  there  is  no  use  to  have  any  more  Congress. 
They  only  bother  us  ;  they  wou'd  do  more  good  to 
stay  at  home  and  write  letters  to  us,  tellin'  us  what 
is  goin'  on  among  'em  at  home.  It  would  save  a 
considerable  sum  of  money,  too  ;  and  I'm  alsosartain 
that  there  is  a  plaguy  raft  of  fellows  on  wages  that 
don't  earn  nothin'.  We  keep  all  the  secretaries  and 
the  vice-president  and  some  district  attorneys  and  a 
good  many  more  of  our  folks  and  Amos  Kindle 
moving  about,  and  they  tell  us  jest  how  the  cat 
jumps.  And,  as  I  said  afore,  if  it  wasn't  for  Con 
gress  meetin'  once  a  year,  we'd  put  the  government 
in  a  one-horse  wagon  and  go  jest  where  we  liked." 

Mr.  Van  Buren,  whose  political  nickname  was 
"  The  Fox,"  a  shrewd  and  politic,  wily  and  wire 
pulling  man,  is  most  admirably  caricatured  by  the 
jolly  major. 

In  a  discussion  of  the  lucky  vice-president,  the 
general  says :  "  Well,  Major,  he  is  a  plaguey  curious 
critter,  arter  all ;  he'll  make  wheels  turn  sometimes 
right  agin  one  another,  yit  he  gits  along,  and  when 
he  lets  his  slice  fall,  or  some  one  nocks  it  out  of  his 
hand,  it  always,  somehow,  falls  butter  side  up." 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  Gineral,  don't  you  know  why  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,"  says  he,  "  Major." 


220  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

"Well, "says  I,  "I'll  tell  you,  he  butters  both 
sides  to  once,"  says  I. 

On  shaking  hands  with  a  crowd  at  Philadelphia  : 
"  There  was  such  a  stream  of  'em  coming  in  that 
the  hall  was  full  in  a  few  minutes,  and  it  was  so 
jammed  up  around  the  door  that  they  couldn't  get 
out  again  if  they  were  to  die.  So  they  had  to  knock 
out  some  of  the  windows  and  go  out  t'other  way. 
The  president  shook  hands  with  all  his  might  an 
hour  or  two,  till  he  got  so  tired  he  couldn't  hardly 
stand  it.  I  took  hold  and  shook  for  him  once  in  a 
while  to  help  him  along,  but  at  last  he  got  so  tired 
he  had  to  lay  down  on  a  soft  bench,  covered  with 
cloth,  and  shake  as  well  as  he  could ;  and  when  he 
couldn't  shake,  he'd  nod  to  'em  as  they  come  along. 
And  at  last,  he  got  so  beat  out,  he  couldn't  only 
wrinkle  his  forehead  and  wink.  Then  I  kind  of 
stood  behind  him,  and  reached  my  arm  round  under 
his,  and  shook  for  him  for  about  half  an  hour  as  tight 
as  I  could  spring.  Then  we  concluded  it  \vas  best 
to  adjourn  for  that  day." 

Orpheus  C.  Kerr  (Robt.  H.  Newell)  and  Petroleum 
Nasby  (D.  R.  Locke)  both  followed  in  Jack's  foot 
steps,  with  humorous  letters  full  of  hard  hits  at  the 
weak  places  in  political  and  army  life,  and  Judge 
Haliburton,  an  English  writer,  better  known  as  Sam 
vSlick,  contributed,  in  1835,  to  a  weekly  newspaper 
in  Nova  Scotia,  a  series  of  articles  satirizing  the 
Yankee  character  that  became  extremely  popular, 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  221 

but  for  originality  and  genuine  fun,  the  palm  must 
be  given  to  the  major. 

Orpheus  C.  Kerr  published  three  volumes  of  his 
letters  from  the  army,  rather  tedious  with  the  con 
stant  repetition  of  his  pet  phrase,  "  my  boy."  And 
'tis  hard  to  find  anything  that  is  not  a  trifle  coarse. 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  June  15,  1861. 

"  The  members  of  the  Mackerel  Brigade,  now 
stationed  on  Arlington  Heights  to  watch  the  move 
ments  of  the  Potomac,  which  is  expected  to  rise 
shortly,  desire  me  to  thank  the  women  of  America 
for  supplies  of  havelocks  and  other  delicacies  of  the 
season  just  received.  The  havelocks,  my  boy,  are 
rather  roomy,  and  we  took  them  for  shirts  at  first ; 
and  the  shirts  are  so  narrow-minded  that  we  took 
them  for  havelocks.  If  the  women  of  America 
would  manage  to  get  a  little  less  linen  in  the  collars 
of  the  latter  article,  and  a  little  more  into  the  other 
departments  of  the  graceful  garments,  there  would 
be  fewer  colds  in  this  division  of  the  Grand  Army. 

•'  The  havelocks,  as  I  have  said  before,  are  roomy, 
very  roomy,  my  boy.  William  Brown  of  Company 
B,  regiment  5,  put  on  one  last  night,  when  he  went 
on  sentry  duty,  and  looked  like  a  broomstick  in  a 
pillow-case  for  all  the  world.  When  the  officer  of 
the  night  came  round  and  caught  sight  of  William  in 
his  havelock,  he  was  struck  dumb  with  admiration 
for  a  moment ;  then  he  ejaculated  :  '  What  a  splendid 
moonbeam ! '  William  made  a  movement  and  the 
sergeant  came  up.  '  What  t's  that  white  object  ? '  says 


222  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

the  officer  to  the  sergeant.  '  The  young"  man  which 
is  William  Brown,'  says  the  sergeant.  '  Thunder  ! ' 
roars  the  officer,  '  tell  him  to  go  to  his  tent  and  take 
off  that  night-gown.'  '  You're  mistaken,'  says  the 
sergeant,  '  the  sentry  is  William  Brown  in  his  have- 
lock,  which  was  made  by  the  wimmen  of  America.' 

"  The  shirts,  too,  are  noble  articles  as  far  down  as 
the  collar.  Captain  Mortimer  de  Montague,  one  of 
the  skirmish  squad,  put  one  on  when  he  went  to  the 
President's  reception,  and  the  collar  stood  up  so  high 
that  he  couldn't  put  his  cap  on.  His  appearance  at 
the  White  House  was  picturesque  and  interesting, 
and,  as  he  entered  the  drawing  room,  General  Scott 
remarked  very  feelingly,  '  Ah !  here  comes  one  of 
our  wounded  heroes.'  '  He's  not  wounded,  General,' 
remarked  an  officer  standing  by.  '  Then  why  is  his 
head  bandaged  up  so? '  asked  the  venerable  veteran. 
'  Oh,'  says  the  officer,  '  that's  only  one  of  the  shirts 
made  by  the  patriotic  women  of  America.'  " 

And  one  more  bit : 

"  I  asked  the  general  of  the  Mackerel  Brigade  the 
other  day,  what  kind  of  a  flower  he  thought  would 
spring  above  my  head  when  I  rested  in  a  soldier's 
sepulchre,  and  he  said  :  '  A  cabbage,  my  boy,'  he  said 
a  cabbage." 

We  will  now  turn  to  Xasby,  who  was  so  popular 
during  the  war,  and  let  him  tell  you  of  his  ingenious 
scheme  for  inexpensive  living  : 

"  I  hev  invented  a  new  carpit-bag  for  the 
espeshal  yoose  uv  patriots  and  agitaters.  It  is  made 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  223 

uv  thin  Injy  rubber,  with  a  frame  that  folds  up  into 
a  small  compass.  Yoo  take  that  carpit-bag  and  blow 
it  up  till  it  bulges  out  at  the  sides  ez  tho  it  wuz  full 
of  cloze  and  things,  and  walk  into  a  lodging  house 
and  demand  rooms  with  confidence.  That  carpit- 
bag  bustin'  with  valyooables  settles  it.  It  looks  sol 
vent,  and  everything  is  in  looks.  Yoo  stay  on  the 
strength  uv  that  bag,  and  hev  yoor  meals  sent  to 
yoor  room,  and  live  fat.  Presently,  your  landlady 
wants  money,  and  commences  to  watch  that  carpit- 
bag.  Yoo  can't  get  out  of  the  house  with  it,  for  that 
is  her  anker  and  her  hope.  Very  good.  Some  even 
ing  yoo  go  to  yoor  room,  let  the  wind  out  uv  it,  fold 
it  up  and  put  it  in  yoor  coat  pocket,  and  bid  her 
good  evening,  telling  her  yoo  shel  be  home  early, 
and  she  may  light  the  fire  at  ten,  and  the  place  that 
knowd  yoo  wunst  knows  yoo  no  more  furever.  The 
first  dark  place  yoo  come  to  yoo  blow  it  up  again, 
and  go  boldly  into  another  house  and  establish  yoor- 
self  in  comfort  ef  not  in  luxury." 

Abraham  Lincoln  used  to  find  relief  from  the 
presence  of  the  responsibilities  which  weighed  upon 
his  mind,  in  reading  the  droll  witticisms  of  Nasby 
and  Artemus  Ward.  When  the  great  question  of 
emancipation  was  under  consideration,  he  once  came 
into  a  cabinet  meeting,  chuckling  over  one  of  Nasby 's 
letters  from  "  Confederate  Cross  Roads,"  and  insisted 
upon  reading  it  before  any  business  was  done.  Men 
of  formal  dignity  like  Salmon  P.  Chase  and  Edward 
M.  Stanton  were  shocked  at  Lincoln's  apparent  lev- 


224  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

ity  at  such  a  crisis ;  but  he  was,  really,  a  sadder  as 
well  as  a  wiser  man  than  they. 

Artemus  Ward  (Charles  F.  Browne),  who  gained 
his  first  honors  as  a  newspaper  wit  in  the  Cleveland 
Plaindealcr,  never  sacrificed  his  friends  for  an  epi 
gram;  he  made  you  laugh  and  love  him  too.  He 
seldom  smiled  in  his  lectures,  no  matter  how  absurd 
his  statements.  Many  good  people  failed  to  see  the 
comical  in  his  performances.  One  old  lady,  accom 
panied  by  her  serious-minded  daughters,  left  the  hall 
in  the  midst  of  his  lecture  saying :  "  It  is  too  bad  to 
laugh  at  that  poor  young  man.  He  doesn't  know 
what  he  is  saying  and  ought  to  be  sent  to  a  lunatic 
asylum." 

Others  would  survey  this  driest  of  droll  men  with 
looks  of  benevolent  pity.  It  was  his  delight  to  puz 
zle.  In  the  middle  of  his  lecture  he  would  hesitate, 
stop ,  and  say  solemnly,  "  Owing  to  a  slight  indispo 
sition,  we  will  now  have  an  intermission  of  fifteen 
minutes."  The  audience  were  properly  amazed,  at 
the  prospect  of  staring  at  vacancy  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  when,  rubbing  his  hands  the  lecturer  would 
add,  "  but  —  ah  —  during  the  intermission  I  will  go 
on  with  my  lecture." 

He  once  stated  that  the  same  lecture  would  be 
repeated  in  Constantinople  —  one  week  from  date 
—  and  tickets  for  the  round  trip  would  be  given  to 
audience  as  they  passed  out !  He  observed  that 
what  he  said  had  given  pain  to  several,  and  he  would 
then  endeavor  to  explain  his  jokes. 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  225 

Sometimes  he  would  seem  to  forget  his  audience, 
and  stand  for  several  seconds  gazing  intently  at  his 
panorama.  Then  he  would  recover  from  this  fit  of 
abstraction  and  remark  apologetically,  "  I  am  very 
fond  of  looking  at  my  pictures."  Imagine  the  effect, 
when,  after  such  an  interruption,  he  would  point  with 
his  little  riding  whip  to  some  nondescript  quadru 
peds  which  he  had  all  along  characterized  as  cows 
and  remark,  "  Those  animals  are  horses  —  I  know  they 
are  because  my  artist  says  so.  I  had  the  picture  two 
years  before  I  discovered  the  fact.  The  artist  came 
to  me  about  six  months  ago  and  said,  "  It  is  useless 
to  disguise  it  from  you  any  longer,  they  are  horses." 

"  The  most  celebrated  artists  of  London  are  so 
delighted  with  this  picture  that  they  come  every  day 
to  gaze  at  it.  I  wish  you  were  nearer  to  it  so  you 
could  see  it  better.  I  wish  I  could  take  it  to  your 
residences  and  let  you  see  it  by  daylight.  Some  of 
the  greatest  artists  in  London  come  here  every  morn 
ing  before  daylight  with  lanterns  to  look  at  it.  They 
say  they  never  saw  anything  like  it  before  —  and 
they  hope  they  never  shall  again." 

He  insisted  that  one  of  his  earliest  literary  efforts 
was  an  essay  sent  to  the  Smithsonian  Institute,  but, 
strange  to  say,  rejected  on  the  theme,  "  Is  cats  to  be 
trusted." 

Some  one  speaking  of  Artemus  called  him  a  per 
fect  steam  factory  of  puns  and  a  museum  of  Ameri 
can  humor.  His  first  lecture  he  called  "  The  Babes 
in  the  Woods  ;  "  he  had  thought  of  naming  it  "  My 


226  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

Seven  Grandmothers."  It  consisted  of  a  wandering 
batch  of  comicalities,  touching  upon  everything  but 
the  babes. 

The  next  was  entitled  "  Sixty  Minutes  in  Africa." 
Behind  him  hung  a  large  map  of  Africa,  which  re 
gion  he  said  "  abounded  in  various  natural  produc 
tions,  such  as  reptiles  and  flowers.  It  produces  the 
red  rose,  the  white  rose,  and  the  neg — roes.  Apro 
pos  of  negroes,  let  me  tell  you  a  little  story,"  and  no 
further  reference  to  Africa  until  the  very  close  of 
the  entertainment. 

His  experience  as  a  showman  is  familiar,  yet  I 
never  tire  of  his  business  letters,  for  instance  — 

"I'm  moving  slowly  down  to'rds  your  place.  How 
is  the  show  bizness  in  your  place.  My  show  at  pres 
ent  consists  of  three  moral  bares,  a  kangeroo  (an 
amoosin  little  raskal,  'twould  make  you  laf  yourself 
to  deth  to  see  the  little  cuss  jump  up  and  squeal), 
wax  riggers  of  Genl.  Washington,  Genl.  Taylor,  John 
Bunyan,  Captain  Kidd,  Dr.  Webster,  in  the  act  of 
killing  Parkman,  beside  several  miscellayous  moral 
wax  statoos  of  celebrated  pirates,"  etc.  (after  hinting 
strongly  for  a  puff).  And  again  :  "  If  you  say  any 
thing  about  my  show  say  my  snaiks  is  as  harmliss 
as  a  new  born  Babe.  What  an  interestin'  study  it  is 
to  see  a  zewological  animal,  like  a  snaik,  under  per- 
fec'  subjecshun  !  I  am  anxious  to  skewer  your  influ 
ence.  I  repeat  in  regard  to  them  handbills  that  I 
shall  get  'em  struck  off  to  your  printin'  offis.  My 
perlitical  sentiments  agree  with  yourn  exactly.  I 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  227 

know  they  dew,  because  I  never  saw  a  man  whose 
didn't." 

It  was  Artemus  who  preferred  bald-headed  butter 
and  considered  absence  of  body  a  better  thing  than 
presence  of  mind  in  case  of  an  accident. 

Here  is  a  characteristic  story  of  the  thin  man  en 
gaged  for  a  living  skeleton,  for  a  tour  through  Aus 
tralia  : 

"  He  was  the  thinnest  man  I  ever  saw.  He  was 
a  splendid  skeleton.  He  didn't  weigh  anything 
scarcely,  and  I  said  to  myself,  the  people  of  Austra 
lia  will  flock  to  see  this  tremendous  curiosity.  It  is 
a  long  voyage,  as  you  know,  from  New  York  to  Mel 
bourne,  and,  to  my  utter  surprise,  the  skeleton  had 
no  sooner  got  out  to  sea  than  he  commenced  eating 
in  the  most  horrible  manner.  He  had  never  been  on 
the  ocean  before,  and  he  said  it  agreed  with  him.  I 
thought  so  !  I  never  saw  a  man  eat  so  much  in  my 
life.  Beef,  mutton,  pork,  he  swallowed  them  all  like  a 
shark,  and  between  meals  he  was  often  discovered 
behind  barrels  eating  hard-boiled  eggs  !  The  result 
was  that  when  we  reached  Melbourne,  this  infamous 
skeleton  weighed  sixty-four  pounds  more  than  I 
did.  I  thought  I  was  ruined  —  but  I  wasn't.  I  took 
him  on  to  California  —  another  very  long  voyage  — 
and  when  I  got  to  San  Francisco  I  exhibited  him  as 
a  fat  man  !  " 

"  People  laugh  at  me,"  said  Browne,  "because  of 
my  eccentric  sentences.  There  is  no  wit  in  the  form  of 
a  well-rounded  sentence.  If  I  say  '  Alexander  con- 


228  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

quered  the  world  and  sighed  because  he  couldn't  do 
so  some  more,'  there  is  a  funny  mixture."  You 
notice  that  a  majority  of  his  jokes  depend  upon  a 
sudden  change  from  a  serious  beginning  to  an  absurd 
ending. 

The  character  he  created  represents  humor  of  an 
original  type,  yet  he  is  said  to  have  copied  it  from  a 
living  oddity  ;  as  Denman  Thompson  gives  a  faith 
ful  imitation  of  a  resident  of  "Swanzey"  as  Josh 
Whitcomb.  His  success  in  England  was  largely  due 
to  the  impression  that  he  gave  a  clever  caricature 
of  an  American  backwoodsman  or  "showman.  The 
celebrated  wits  on  the  staff  of  PuncJi  used  to  frequent 
Egyptian  Hall  and  roar  at  his  solemn  fun,  vacant 
face,  and  inimitable  drawl.  Mark  Twain  says  "  Arte- 
mus  looked  like  a  glove  stretcher  ;  his  hair  red  and 
brushed  well  forward  at  the  sides  reminded  one  of  a 
divided  flame.  His  nose  rambled  on  aggressively 
before  him  with  all  the  strength  and  determination 
of  a  cow-catcher,  while  his  red  moustache,  to  follow 
out  the  simile,  seemed  not  unlike  the  unfortunate 
cow." 

Lieut.  Derby,  known  as  "John  Phoenix"  and 
"  Squibob,"  was  often  deliciously  droll. 

His  lectures  on  Astronomy,  he  frankly  tells  us, 
were  originally  prepared  to  be  delivered  before  the 
Lowell  Institute  of  Boston,  Mass.,  but  owing  to  the 
unexpected  circumstance  of  the  author's  receiving 
no  invitation  to  lecture  before  that  institution,  they 
were  laid  aside  shortly  after  their  completion. 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  229 

He  some  time  after  did  receive  an  invitation  to 
lecture  before  the  Vallecetos  Literary  and  Scientific 
Institute,  but  on  arriving  at  that  place,  he  learned 
with  deep  regret  that  the  only  inhabitant  had  left  a 
few  days  previous/  having  availed  himself  of  the  op 
portunity  presented  by  a  passing  emigrant's  horse, 
and  that,  in  consequence,  the  opening  of  the  Insti 
tute  was  indefinitely  postponed. 

But  the  lectures  are  full  of  original  ideas.  He 
says: 

"  Up  to  the  time  of  a  gentleman  named  Coperni 
cus,  who  flourished  about  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  it  was  supposed  by  our  stupid  ancestors  that 
the  earth  was  the  center  of  all  creation,  being  a  large, 
flat  body,  resting  on  a  rock,  which  rested  on  another 
rock,  and  so  on  all  the  way  down,  and  that  the  sun, 
planets,  and  immovable  stars  all  revolved  about  it 
once  in  twenty-four  hours. 

But  Co-Pernicus  (who  was  a  son  of  Daniel  Perni- 
cus,  of  the  firm  of  Pernicus  &  Co.,  wool  dealers,  and 
who  was  named  Co-Pernicus  out  of  respect  to  his 
father's  partners,  soon  set  this  matter  to  rights  and 
started  the  idea  of  the  present  solar  system. 

The  demonstration  of  this  system  in  all  its  per 
fection  was  left  to  Isaac  Newton  (an  English  philos 
opher),  who  seeing  an  apple  tumble  down  from  a 
tree,  was  led  to  think  thereon  with  such  gravity  that 
he  finally  discovered  the  attraction  of  gravitation, 
which  proved  to  be  the  great  law  of  nature  that  keeps 
everything  in  its  place.  Thus  we  see  that  as  an 


230  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

apple  originally  brought  sin  and  ignorance  into  the 
world,  the  same  fruit  proved  thereafter  the  cause  of 
vast  knowledge  and  enlightenment,  and  indeed  we 
may  doubt  whether  any  other  fruit  but  an  apple  and 
a  sour  one  at  that,  would  have  produced  these  grand 
results ;  for  had  the  fallen  fruit  been  a  pear,  an 
orange,  or  a  peach  tree,  there  is  little  doubt  that 
Xewton  would  have  eaten  it  up  and  thought  no  more 
on  the  subject." 

When  the  bill  for  a  new  chimney  came  in  he  ex 
claims  :  "  Bills,  bills,  bills  !  How  can  a  man  name 
his  child  William  ?  The  horrid  idea  of  the  partner 
of  his  joys  and  sorrows  presenting  him  with  a  Bill  ! 
—  and  to  have  that  Bill  continually  in  the  house, 
constantly  running  up  and  down  stairs  always  unset 
tled  !  " 

"  Leaving  San  Francisco  as  the  last  line  fell  from 
the  dock,  and  our  noble  steamer  with  a  mighty  throb 
and  deep  sigh,  at  bidding  adieu  to  San  Francisco, 
swung  slowly  round,  the  passengers  crowded  to  the 
side  to  exchange  a  farewell  salutation  with  their 
friends  and  acquaintances.  '  Good-bye,  Jones,'  '  Good 
bye,  Brown,'  '  God  bless  you  old  fellow,  take  care  of 
yourself  ! '  they  shouted.  Not  seeing  any  one  that  I 
knew,  and  fearing  the  passengers  might  think  I  had 
no  friends,  I  shouted  '  Good-bye,  Muggins,'  and  had 
the  satisfaction  of  having  a  shabby  man,  much  inebri 
ated,  reply  as  he  swung  his  rimless  hat,  '  Good-bye, 
my  brother.'  Not  particularly  elated  at  this  recog 
nition,  I  tried  it  again,  with,  '  Good-bye,  Colonel,' 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  ~  23 1 

whereat  thirty-four  respectable  gentlemen  took  off 
their  hats,  and  I  got  down  from  the  position  that  I 
had  occupied  on  a  camp  stool,  with  much  dignity. 

"  Away  we  sped  down  the  bay,  the  captain  stand 
ing  on  the  wheel-house  directing  our  course.  '  Port, 
Port  a  little,  Port,'  he  shouted.  '  What's  he  a  calling 
for  ? '  inquired  a  youth  of  good-natured  but  unmis 
takable  verdancy  of  appearance,  of  me.  '  Port 
wine,'  said  I,  '  and  the  storekeeper  don't  hear  him, 
you'd  better  take  him  up  some.'  '  I  will,'  said  In 
nocence  ;  '  Pve  got  a  bottle  of  first-rate  in  my  state 
room.'  And  he  did,  but  soon  returned  with  a  par 
ticularly  crest-fallen  and  sheepish  appearance.  '  Well, 
what  did  he  say  to  you,'  inquired  I.  '  Pointed  at 
the  notice  on  that  tin,' said  the  poor  fello\v.  'Pas 
sengers  not  allowed  on  the  wheel-house.'  '  He  is, 
though,  ain't  he  ? '  added  my  friend  with  a  faint 
attempt  at  a  smile,  as  the  captain  in  an  awful  voice 
shouted,  '  Starboard  ! '  'Is  what  ? '  said  I,  '  Loud  on 
the  wheel-house  !  " 

Receiving  a  formal  letter  from  the  Secretary  of 
War,  inquiring  "  How  far  does  the  Tombigby  run 
up?"  he  came  near  being  cashiered  for  replying. 
"  Dear  sir,  after  a  careful  examination  we  find  the 
Tombigby  never  did  run  up."  They  inquired  if  the 
Santa  Clara  could  be  dammed,  and  he  replied  he  was 
certain  it  could,  for  he  had  been  damning  it  ever 
•since  he  came. 

"  The  Squibob  Papers,"  a  second  volume  from 
Lieut.  Derby,  is  enriched  by  comic  illustrations  from 


232  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

his  own  pen,  which  would  convulse  the  most  serious- 
minded  audience,  if  they  could  only  be  enlarged  and 
displayed. 

"  A  Side  Elevation  of  G.  Washington  not  by  Gil 
bert  Stuart,"  adorns  the  first  page.  It  was  taken  when 
the  general  was  in  the  act  of  chewing  tobacco,  the 
left  cheek  is  distended  most  absurdly,  -and  the  left 
eye  is  closed  in  a  very  wise  wink. 

In  his  famous  "  Fourth  of  July  Oration,"  he  fol 
lows  the  universal  custom  of  inserting  a  full  and 
complete  biography  of  the  immortal  Washington 
and  pays  the  following  beautiful  tribute  to  the 
memory  of  this  greatest  of  men  : 

"  George  Washington  was  one  of  the  most  dis 
tinguished  movers  in  the  American  Revolution. 
He  was  born  of  poor  but  honest  parents  at  Genoa,  in 
the  year  1492.  His  mother  was  called  the  mother 
of  Washington.  He  married,  early  in  life,  a  widow 
lady,  Mrs.  Martha  Custis,  whom  Prescott  describes 
as  the  cussidest  pretty  woman  south  of  Mason  and 
Dixon's  line. 

"  Young  Washington  commenced  business  as  a 
county  surveyor  and  was  present  in  that  character  at 
a  sham-fight,  under  General  Braddock,  when  so 
many  guns  were  fired  that  the  whole  body  of  militia 
were  stunned  by  the  explosion,  and  sate  down  to  sup 
per  unable  to  hear  a  word  that  was  said.  This 
supper  was  afterwards  alluded  to  as  Braddock's  deaf 
eat,  and  the  simile,  '  deaf  as  a  Braddock,'  subse- 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  233 

quently  vulgarized  into  'deaf  as  a  haddock/  had. its 
rise  from  that  circumstance. 

"  Washington  commanded  several  troops  during 
the  Revolutionary  War,  and  distinguished  himself 
by  fearlessly  crossing  the  Delaware  river,  on  ice  of 
very  inadequate  thickness,  to  visit  a  family  of  Hes 
sians  of  his  acquaintance.  He  was  passionately  fond 
of  green  peas  and  string  beans,  and  his  favorite 
motto  was :  '  In  time  of  peace  prepare  for  war.' 

"  Washington  died  from  exposure  on  the  summit 
of  Mount  Vernon,  in  the  year  1786,  leaving  behind 
him  a  name  that  will  endure  forever  if  posterity 
persist  in  calling  their  children  after  him  to  the 
same  extent  that  has  been  fashionable." 

Derby's  skill  as  a  philologist  is  again  seen  in  his 
explanation  of  the  word  oration,  which  he  declared 
had  a  military  origin  in  a  custom  once  prevalent 
among  commanding  officers  and  chaplains  of  making 
long  and  verbose  addresses  to  the  troops,  which 
were  stigmatized  as  "all  talk  and  no  rations," 
whence  the  word  "  noration  "  was  modernized  into 
oration. 

In  his  own  "  noration  "  in  his  frantic  rhapsody  on 
the  4th  of  July  he  exclaims,  "  For  on  this  day  the 
great  American  eagle  flaps  her  wings  and  soars  aloft, 
until  it  makes  your  eyes  sore  to  look  at  her,  and 
looking  down  upon  her  myriads  of  free  and  enlight 
ened  children  she  screams,  '  E  Pluribus  Unum ! ' 
which  may  be  freely  interpreted,  '  Ain't  I  some  ? ' 


234  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

and  myriads  of  freemen  answer  back  with  joyous 
shout : 

" '  You  are  Punkins  ! ' ' 

His  account  of  the  meeting  of  the  Massachusetts 
Dental  Association  or  "  three  hundred  tewth  car 
penters,"  with  the  motto  on  their  banner,  "  A  long 
pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  a  pull  altogether,"  is  pecu 
liarly  rich. 

"  There  was  the  elegant  city  practitioner,  with 
shiny  hat  and  straw-colored  gloves,  side  by  side  with 
the  gentleman  from  the  country  who  hauls  a  man 
all  over  the  floor  for  two  hours,  and  gives  him  the 
worth  of  his  money." 

One  of  the  many  toasts  was,  "  The  Woodcock, 
emblem  of  dentistry,  he  picks  up  his  living  from  the 
holes,  and  passes  in  a  precious  long  bill." 

Other  interesting  exercises  were  gone  through 
with. 

A  hackman  passing  by  on  his  carriage  was  placed 
under  the  influence  of  chloroform,  all  his  teeth 
extracted  without  pain,  and  an  entire  new  and  ele 
gant  set  put  in  their  place,  all  in  forty-two  seconds. 
His  appearance  was  wonderfully  improved.  "  I  have 
never  seen  300  dentists  together  before,  and  I  don't 
believe  anybody  else  ever  did,  but  I  consider  it  a 
pleasing  and  an  imposing  spectacle,  and  would  sug 
gest  that  the  next  time  they  meet  they  shall  make 
an  excursion  which  shall  combine  business  with 
pleasure,  and  all  go  down  together  and  remove  the 
snags  from  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi." 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  235 

Derby  at  thirty  years  old  shared  with  Artemus 
Ward  the  fame  of  being  the  greatest  American 
humorist.  One  of  his  pranks  sent  him  to  San  Diego. 
Jefferson  Davis  had  asked  the  army  officers  who  had 
served  in  Mexico  to  submit  designs  for  a  new  service 
uniform.  Derby  responded  with  a  series  of  clever 
drawings,  one  of  which  represented  a  cavalry  man 
with  an  orange  stuck  on  his  cap  as  a  pompon, 
explaining  that  it  looked  as  well  as  the  ordinary 
pompon,  and  in  case  the  wearer  grew  tired  or 
thirsty  he  could  take  it  off  and  suck  it. 

Another  device  was  an  iron  hook  on  the  seat  of 
the  trousers.  It  could  be  put  through  a  saddle  ring 
so  that  no  amount  of  hard  riding  could  dislodge  a 
horseman.  In  the  infantry  service  these  hooks 
might  be  used  to  carry  camp  kettles  on  a  march  and 
in  battle,  the  file  closers  could  use  a  ringed  pole  to 
advantage  in  catching  men  who  had  started  to  run 
away.  Davis  was  so  angry  at  this  irreverence  that 
he  ordered  the  young  officer  to  a  hot  and  dusty  place 
of  exile.  Seeing  the  sign  while  in  Washington, 
"  Ladies  Depository,"  he  made  a  futile  effort  to 
deposit  his  wife  while  he  went  around  the  corner  to 
—  see  —  a  man. 

We  come  next  to  Mortimer  Thompson,  famous 
twenty  years  ago,  the  author  of  "  Doesticks,"  "  What 
He  Says,"  "The  Elephant  Club,"  "  Pluribustah," 
etc.  He  wrote  a  capital  take-off  on  the  successful 
vendors  of  quack  medicines,  at  the  time  when 


236  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

Townsend's  Sarsaparilla  was  the  favorite  beverage 
for  bilious  invalids. 

"  As  I,  too,  desire  to  have  a  mansion  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  like  the  Medical  Worthy  of  Sarsaparilla 
memory,  and  wished  like  him  to  be  able  to  build  a 
patent  medicine  palace,  with  a  private  chapel  under 
the  back  stairs,  and  conservatory  down  cellar,  I  cast 
about  me  for  some  means  whereby  the  requisite  cash 
might  be  reputably  accumulated. 

"  Emulous  of  the  deathly  notoriety  which  has 
been  acquired  by  the  medicinal  worthies  just  men 
tioned,  I  also  resolved  to  achieve  a  name  and  a 
fortune  in  the  same  reputable  and  honest  manner. 
Bought  a  gallon  of  tar,  a  cake  of  beeswax,  and  a 
firkin  of  lard,  and  in  twenty-one  hours  I  presented 
to  the  world  the  first  batch  of  '  Doestick's  Patent, 
Self- Acting,  Four-Horse  Power  Balsam,'  designed 
to  cure  all  diseases  of  mind,  body,  or  estate,  to  give 
strength  to  the  weak,  money  to  the  poor,  bread  and 
butter  to  the  hungry,  boots  to  the  barefoot,  decency 
to  blackguards,  and  common  sense  to  the  Know- 
Nothings.  It  acts  physically,  morally,  mentally, 
psychologically,  physiologically,  and  geologically, 
and  it  is  intended  to  make  our  sublunary  sphere  a 
blissful  paradise,  to  which  Heaven  itself  shall  be 
but  a  side-show." 

TESTIMONIALS. 

"DEAR  SIR  —  The  land  composing  my  farm  has 
hitherto  been  so  poor  that  a  Scotchman  couldn't  get 
his  living  off  it,  and  so  stony  that  we  had  to  slice- 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  237 

our  potatoes  and  plant  them  edgeways  ;  but  hearing 
of  your  balsam,  I  put  some  on  the  corner  of  a  ten- 
acre  lot,  surrounded  by  a  rail  fence,  and  in  the 
morning  I  found  the  rocks  had  entirely  disappeared, 
a  neat  stone  wall  encircled  the  field,  and  the  rails 
were  split  into  ovenwood  and  piled  up  symmetrically 
in  my  back  yard. 

"  Put  half  an  ounce  into  the  middle  of  a  huckle 
berry  swamp.  In  two  days  it  was  cleared  off,  planted 
with  corn  and  pumpkins,  and  had  a  row  of  peach 
tress  in  full  bloom  through  the  middle." 

I  give  one  more  from  a  member  of  the  senior 
class  in  a  Western  college  : 

"Mv  DEAR  DOCTOR  —  [You  know  I  attended 
medical  lectures  half  a  winter,  and  once  assisted  in 
getting  a  crooked  needle  out  of  a  baby's  leg,  so  I 
understand  perfectly  well  the  theory  and  practice  of 
medicine,  and  the  Doctor  is  perfectly  legitimate  under 
the  Prussian  system.]  By  the  incessant  study 
required  in  this  establishment  I  had  become  worn 
down  so  thin  that  I  was  obliged  to  put  on  an  over 
coat  to  cast  a  shadow,  but  accidentally  hearing  of 
your  Balsam,  I  obtained  a  quantity,  and,  in  obedi 
ence  to  the  homeopathic  principles  of  this  institu 
tion,  took  an  infinitesimal  dose  only;  in  four  days  I 
measured  one  hundred  and  eighty-two  inches  round 
the  waist ;  could  chop  eleven  cords  of  hickory  wood 
in  two  hours  and  a  half,  and,  on  a  bet,  carried  a  yoke 
of  oxen  two  miles  and  a  quarter  in  my  left  hand,  my 


238  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

right  being  tied  behind  me,  and  if  anyone  doubts 
the  fact,  the  oxen  are  still  to  be  seen. 

"  About  two  weeks  after  this  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  participating  in  a  gunpowder  explosion,  on  which 
occasion  my  arms  and  legs  were  scattered  over  the 
village,  and  my  mangled  remains  pretty  equally  dis 
tributed  throughout  the  entire  country. 

"  Under  these  circumstances  my  life  was  de 
spaired  of,  and  my  classmates  had  bought  a  pine 
coffin,  and  borrowed  whole  shirts  to  attend  the 
funeral  in,  when  the  invincible  power  of  your  four- 
horse  power  balsam  (which  I  happened  to  have  in 
my  vest  pocket)  suddenly  brought  together  the  scat 
tered  pieces  of  my  body  —  collected  my  limbs  from 
the  rural  districts,  put  new  life  into  my  shattered 
frame,  and  I  was  restored,  uninjured,  to  my  friends, 
with  a  new  set  of  double  teeth." 

The  Boston  Post  originated  the  "  Funny  Column," 
in  which  every  local  sheet  now  indulges.  It  was 
there  that  Saxe  published  his  famous  epigrams  and 
B.  P.  Shillaber  made  himself  famous  by  quotations 
from  Mrs.  Partington.  One  or  two  "  oracular  pearls  " 
from  the  lips  of  this  popular  old  lady  must  be  given. 
Taken  together  they  lose  their  lustre  and  she 
becomes  a  tedious  old  party,  with  the  effort  for  the 
wrong  word  disagreeably  obvious.  Even  Ike,  forever 
plaguing  £he  cat  and  doing  some  absurd  thing  to 
neatly  end  the  paragraph,  never  seems  like  a  real 
boy. 

"Widow  Bedott  "  and  "  Josiah  Allen's  wife"  are 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  239 

actual  persons.  You  laugh  at  them  and  with  them, 
while  this  blundering  dame  seems  simply  a  mouth 
piece  for  Shillaber.  But  let  us  listen  to  her  verbal 
contortions  for  a  moment : 

"  Entered  at  the  Custom  House,"  said  Mrs.  Part 
ington,  pondering  on  the  expression,  "  I  don't  see 
how  the  vessels  ever  got  in  ;  but  I  am  glad  that  the 
collector  cleared  'em  right  out  again.  It  will  learn 
them  better  manners  next  time,  I  think." 

"  Now  go  to  meeting,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  P.,  as 
Isaac  stood  smoothing  his  hair,  preparatory  to  going 
out  on  Sunday.  He  looked  down  at  his  new  shoes 
and  a  thought  of  the  green  fields  made  him  sigh. 
A  fishing-line  hung  out  of  one  pocket,  which  Mrs. 
Partington  didn't  see. 

"Where  shall  I  go  to?"  asked  Ike.  Since  the 
old  lady  had  given  up  her  seat  in  the  Old  North 
Church  she  had  no  stated  place  of  worship.  "  Go," 
replied  she  sublimely,  as  she  pulled  down  his  jacket 
behind,  "  Go  —  anywheres,  where  the  gospel  is  dis 
pensed  with." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  some  years  ago, 
as  she  watched  the  military  pass  by  on  the  22d  of 
February,  "  Ah,  yes,  Washington  is  dead,  and  the 
worst  of  it  is  his  mantel-piece  hasn't  fallen  upon  any 
living  man  !  " 

There  are  women  in  real  life  who  say  better 
things  of  this  sort.  I  remember  an  old  lady  who  at 
an  evening  party  said  of  a  passing  belle,  "  Why, 
she's  a  perfect  paragram  of  a  young  lady!"  "I 


240  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

think  you  mean  parallelogram,"  suggested  a  friend. 
Upon  which  she  replied  with  a  look  of  withering- 
superiority,  "  I  said  parallelogram,  Mr.  Tenney." 

Occasionally,  there  is  more  of  Shillaber  than 
Partington,  as  in  this  remark  :  "  There  must  be  some 
sort  of  kin  between  poets  and  pullets,  for  they  both 
are  always  chanting  their  lays."  Shillaber  has 
written  good  poetry,  but  will  always  be  thought  of 
as  a  blundering,  kind-hearted  old  dame,  with  large 
spectacles  on  her  beaming  face  and  a  small  rogue  at 
her  side.  He  felt  this  himself  and  said  he  made  a 
mistake  in  appearing  as  a  lecturer,  because  the  pub 
lic  wanted  only  Mrs.  Partington.  He  says  pathetic 
ally,  "  George  William  Curtis  said  long  ago,  that 
when  one  has  managed  to  stand  on  his  head  success 
fully,  the  public  wishes  to  see  how  he  did  it,  but  he 
must  continue  to  stand  on  his  head  or  they  will  be 
disappointed.  I  found  this  to  be  true.  Partington 
was  the  cry.  Partington  was  on  the  big  posters  at 
the  corners  of  the  streets.  Partington  was  the  theme 
of  the  lyceum  presidents  in  introduction.  I  had 
stood  on  my  head  for  fun,  but  here,  in  sober  earnest, 
I  could  not  make  a  mountebank  of  myself. 

"  Artemus  Ward  wrote  me  from  Cleveland : 
'  Come  out  here  like  an  old  woman  and  sing  a  comic 
song,  and  you  will  carry  the  town.'  The  best  I 
could  give  them  were  a  few  pleasant  and  mild  lec 
tures  of  excellent  morals  and  of  unexceptionable 
tone,  but  they  desired  Partington,  and  I  confess  to 
the  folly,  now,  when  I  need  it,  of  abandoning  a  for- 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  241 

tune,  right  within  my  very  grasp,  because  I  would 
not  yield  and  leaving  the  field  at  its  very  threshold." 

Mrs.  Partington  is  not  an  original  creation,  but 
is  a  reproduction  of  Smollett's  Tabitha  Bramble, 
Sheridan's  Mrs.  Malaprop,  and  Theodore  Hook's 
Mrs.  Ramsbottom,  all  of  them  much  better,  however. 

The  name  was  suggested  by  an  anecdote  related 
by  Sydney  Smith  in  a  speech  at  Taunton  in  1831. 
He  said  :  "  I  do  not  mean  to  be  disrespectful,  but 
the  attempt  of  the  lords  to  stop  the  progress  of  re 
form  reminds  me  very  forcibly  of  the  great  storm  of 
Sidmouth,  and  the  conduct  of  the  excellent  Mrs. 
Partington  on  that  occasion.  In  the  winter  of  1824, 
there  set  in  a  great  flood  upon  that  town  ;  the  tide 
rose  to  an  incredible  height ;  the  waves  rushed  in 
upon  the  houses  and  everything  was  threatened 
with  destruction.  In  the  midst  of  this  sublime  storm 
Dame  Partington,  who  lived  upon  the  beach,  was 
seen  at  the  door  of  her  house,  with  mop  and  pattens, 
trundling  her  mop  and  squeezing  out  the  salt  water 
and  vigorously  pushing  away  the  Atlantic  ocean. 
The  Atlantic  was  roused.  Mrs.  Partington's  spirit 
was  up,  but  I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  contest  was 
unequal.  The  Atlantic  Ocean  beat  Mrs.  Partington. 
She  was  excellent  at  a  slop  or  a  puddle,  but  she 
should  not  have  meddled  with  a  tempest." 

As  a  brilliant  journalist  and  versatile  genius  none 
can  rank  higher  than  George  D.  Prentice  —  a  poli 
tician  and  poet,  an  able  lawyer,  author,  statesman, 
editor,  wit,  and  a  success  in  all.  Bryant  said :  "  I 


242  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

have  never  known  anyone  in  editorial  life  who 
equaled  him  in  the  energetic  and  industrious  use  of 
his  powers.  Of  the  vastness  of  those  powers,  very 
few  are  able  to  take  the  measure." 

In  that  just,  discriminating,  and  worthy  memorial 
of  George  D.  Prentice,  delivered  before  the  General 
Assembly  of  Kentucky  by  Mr.  Henry  Watterson, 
and  for  which  every  friend  and  admirer  of  George 
D.  Prentice  is  his  debtor,  Mr.  Watterson  says :  "  I 
found  in  London  that  his  fame  is  exceeded  by  that 
of  no  newspaper  writer  ;  but  the  journalists  of  Paris, 
where  there  is  still  nothing  but  personal  journalism, 
considered  him  a  few  years  ago  as  the  solitary  jour 
nalist  of  genius  among  us.  His  sarcasms  have  often 
got  into  Charivari."  He  was,  without  question,  the 
most  popular  and  influential  newspaper  writer  of 
whom  we  have  any  record.  The  author  of  the  letters 
of  Junius  was  popular  and  potent,  but  his  reign,  com 
pared  with  that  of  Mr.  Prentice,  was  very  brief. 
His  career  was  that  of  a  shooting  meteor  which  van 
ished  rapidly.  The  career  of  Mr.  Prentice  was  that 
of  a  fixed  luminary,  steadily  and  serenely  shedding 
its  light  through  a  long  series  of  years.  His  style, 
for  success  in  his  objects,  was  preeminently  supe 
rior  to  that  of  any  other  newspaper  writer.  There 
are  qualities  of  newspaper  literature  in  which  he 
was  surpassed,  but  I  have  never  known  his  equal 
in  the  power  to  seize  the  public  mind  and  to 
imbue  it  with  his  own  convictions.  The  secret  of 
his  success  was  his  gleaming,  penetrating  style  ;  his 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  243 

brief,  concentrated  humor  or  pungent  wit  and  sar 
casm,  which  was  easily  understood  and  housed  in  the 
memory.  His  versatility  was  as  wonderful  as  any 
other  element  of  his  perfections  as  a  paragraphist. 
He  never  repeated  himself,  nor  did  he  need  to  bor 
row  from  others.  In  these  gifts,  for  such  they  seemed 
to  be,  in  his  long  career  as  a  journalist,  he  had  no 
equal,  even  among  the  strong  and  able  men  who 
measured  weapons  with  him." 

He  could  strike  with  a  rapier  or  a  bludgeon,  and 
there  was  little  mercy  for  editors  who  attacked  him. 
One  opposed  a  pet  plan  of  his  in  a  long  and  labored 
leader  headed  "  More  Villainy  Afoot."  The  only 
notice  taken  by  Prentice  of  this  was  a  brief  item. 
"  We  regret  to  see  that  Mr.  So-and-so  has  lost  his 
horse." 

When  another  grandly  remarked  of  a  certain 
question,  ".Let  others  take  the  responsibility,  we 
wash  our  hands  of  it,"  he  responded,  "  Washing 
your  hands  is  an  operation  that  will  do  you  no  man 
ner  of  harm.  Please  think  of  your  face  at  the  same 
time." 

And  here  are  some  of  his  lighter  sallies : 

An  English  writer  says,  in  his  advice  to  young 
married  women,  "  that  their  mother  Eve  married  a 
gardener."  It  might  be  added  "that  the  gardener 
in  consequence  of  the  match  lost  his  situation." 

"  About  the  only  person  that  we  ever  heard  of 
that  wasn't  spoiled  by  being  lionised  was  a  Jew 
named  Daniel." 


244  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

"  We  suppose  there  can  be  no  disputing  that  the 
first  Arfc-tic  expedition  was  got  up  by  Noah." 

"An  author,  ridiculing  the  idea  of  ghosts,  asks  how 
a  dead  man  can  get  into  a  locked  room.  '  Probably, 
with  a  skeleton  key/  " 

" '  My  dear  wife,  I  wish  you  would  try  to  keep 
your  temper.'  '  My  dear  husband,  I  wish  you  would 
try  to  get  rid  of  yours.'  " 

"  '  I'll  bet  my  ears,'  said  an  angry  husband.  '  In 
deed,  dear,  you  shouldn't  carry  betting  to  such 
lengt/is.'1  " 

"The  Cincinnati  representative  in  Congress  boasts 
that  he  can  bring  an  argument  to  a  pint  as  quick  as 
any  other  man.  He  can  bring  a  quart  to  a  pint  a 
good  deal  quicker." 

"  A  female  correspondent  suggests  a  condition  on 
which  she  will  give  us  a  kiss.  We  feel  in  duty  bound 
to  say,  that  kissing  is  a  thing  that  at  every  proper 
opportunity,  we  set  our  face  against." 

His  ready  wit  never  failed  him.  Bill  Nye  gives 
this  illustration  : 

The  old  Journal  office  used  to  be  the  stamping 
ground  of  many  southern  men  more  or  less  known, 
who  liked  to  hear  the  veteran  journalist  tell  a  story 
or  warm  up  a  presumptuous  young  man  for  lunch. 
Among  those  who  frequented  the  Journal  office  was 
Will  S.  Hays,  the  song  writer. 

Coming  into  Mr.  Prentice's  office  one  day  in  that 
free  and  easy  way  of  his,  he  sat  down  on  one  chair, 
with  his  feet  in  another,  and  jamming  his  hat  on  the 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  245 

back  of  his  head,  said,  without  consulting  Mr.  Pren 
tice's  leisure  : 

"  Seen  my  last  song,  George  ?  " 

Mr.  Prentice  ceased  writing,  sighed  heavily,  and, 
looking  up  sadly  and  reproachfully  at  the  young 
man,  said : 

"  I  hope  so,  Billy." 

His  common  sense  was  as  remarkable  as  his 
brilliancy. 

"  Men  and  women  who  read  a  great  many  light 
and  superficial  works  will  have  a  mere  mass  of  crude 
and  worthless  knowledge,  unless  they  also  read  books 
filled  with  stern,  strong,  hard  thought.  The  birds 
have  to  pick  up  pebble  stones  to  aid  the  digestion  of 
the  softer  contents  of  their  caws." 

We  are  indebted  to  the  friendly  biographer  and 
editor  of  Mr.  Prentice's  poems,  John  J.  Piatt,  for  this 
extract  from  a  letter  written  by  Mr.  Prentice  : 

"  I  rejoice,  my  little  friend,  that  you  are  a  believer. 
For  my  own  part,  I  have  no  doubt  either  of  the 
truths  of  Christianity  or  of  the  momentous  and  infi 
nite  importance  of  those  truths.  I  hear  a  thousand 
things  from  the  pulpit  that  make  me  smile,  yet  I 
would  rather  be  a  Christian  of  the  very  humblest 
order  of  intellect  than  the  most  gloriously-gifted  infi 
del  that  ever  blazed  like  a  comet  through  the  atmos 
phere  of  earth." 

Henry  R.  Shaw,  Josh  Billings,  who  as  Eli 
Perkins  expressed  it,  wore  his  hair  in  a  court  train 
over  his  collar,  gained  a  wide  notoriety  as  writer  and 


246  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

lecturer.  He  failed  several  times  in  business,  turned 
harlequin  at  forty-five,  took  the  public  by  storm  and 
made  a  large  fortune  as  a  comic  paragraphist,  lect 
urer,  and  maker  of  Alminax  and  apothegms.  How 
quaint  and  irresistible  is  his  Essay  on  Rats  : 

"  Rats  originally  cum  from  Norway,  and  I  wish 
they  had  originally  stayed  there.  They  are  about  as 
uncalled  for  as  a  pain  in  the  small  of  the  back. 
They  can  be  domesticated  dredful  eazy,  that  is,  as 
far  as  gittin'  in  cupboards  and  eatin'  cheese  and 
knawing  pie  is  concerned.  The  best  way  to  domes 
ticate  them  that  I  ever  saw,  is  tew  surround  them 
gently  with  a  steel  trap  ;  you  can  reason  with  them 
then  to  great  advantage.  I  serpose  there  is  between 
50  and  60  millions  of  rats  in  Ameriky  (I  quote  now 
entirely  from  memory),  and  I  don't  suppose  there  is 
a  single  necessary  rat  in  the  whole  lot.  This  shows 
at  a  glance  how  many  waste  rats  there  is." 

A  few  of  his  terse  sayings  will  show  the  wisdom 
of  the  joker :  "  When  a  feller  gets  a  goin'  down  hill, 
it  dus  seem  as  tho  everything  had  been  greased  for 
the  okashun." 

"  I  don't  insist  upon  pedigree  for  a  man  or  horse. 
If  a  horse  kan  trot  fast  the  pedigree  is  all  right ;  if 
he  kan't,  I  wouldn't  give  a  shilling  a  yard  for  his 
pedigree." 

"  It  is  dredful  easy  to  be  a  phool.  A  man  kan  be 
one  and  not  know  it.  Fust  appearances  are  ced  to  be 
everything.  I  don't  put  all  my  faith  into  this  say  in. 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  247 

I  think  oysters  and  klams,  for  instance,  will  bear 
looking  into." 

This  union  of  strong  common  sense,  keen  wit, 
outrageous  orthography  is  seldom  tiresome.  The 
success  of  his  writings  has  brought  numerous  com 
petitors  into  the  field  who  seem  to  imagine  that,  if 
the  spelling  is  only  bad  enough,  the  absence  of  wit 
and  sense  will  not  be  noticed,  not  understanding 
that  the  peculiar  spelling  is  an  ingenious  method  of 
evading  either  pretension  or  an  assumption  of  intel 
lectual  acuteness. 

Horace  Greeley  denounced  the  modern  humorist 
who  thrives  on  bad  spelling. 

Samuel  L.  Clemens,  the  irrepressible  Mark  Twain, 
is  best  in  long  narratives.  The  tidal  wave  of  laughter 
that  rose  from  the  reading  of  "  Innocents  Abroad," 
spread  over  two  continents. 

The  London  World,  in  publishing  a  series  of  pen- 
portraits  of  "  Celebrities  at  Home,"  devoted  one 
paper  to  "  Mark  Twain  at  Hartford,"  describing  him 
as  surrounded  by  every  object  which  wealth  and 
taste  can  procure,  the  prince  of  entertainers,  the  cen 
ter  of  a  delightful  circle  of  friends. 

It  would  be  easy  to  resolve  Mr.  Clemens'  methods 
of  rousing  a  laugh  into  a  few  general  formulas  such 
as  solemn  misstatement  and  specific  exaggeration. 
For  instance,  speaking  of  New  England  weather,  he 
said  :  "  In  the  spring  I've  counted  136  different  kinds 
of  weather  inside  of  24  hours."  If  he  had  said,  "  I 
have  counted  a  great  many  different  kinds  of  weather, 


248  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

no  one  would  have  smiled.  The  wit  lies  in  the  defi- 
niteness  of  the  exaggeration.  Alas  !  after  an  analy 
sis  of  the  method,  the  wit  eludes  us.  Wit  can  never 
be  captured  nor  defined.  Mr.  Clemens  named  one 
of  his  dogs  "  Joseph  Cook,"  because,  as  he  said, 
there  are  some  things  about  that  dog  he  can't  under 
stand,  depths  in  that  dog's  nature  which  he  fails  to 
fathom.  He  says  of  a  cat's  midnight  serenade  that 
he  doesn't  mind  the  noise,  it's  their  sickening  gram 
mar  that  distresses  him.  Mark  Twain  has  a  natural 
drawl.  Artemus  Ward  assumed  his  to  surprise  and 
hold  his  audience. 

Mark  Twain  tells  us  in  his  valuable  appendix  to 
"  A  Tramp  Abroad,"  all  about  the  German  journals 
which  have  neither  "  editorials,"  "  personals,"  nor 
"  funny  paragraphs  ;  "  no  "  rumors,"  no  abuse  of  pub 
lic  officials,  no  rehash  of  cold  sermons,  no  weather 
items. 

Once  a  week  the  German  daily  of  the  highest  class 
lightens  up  its  heavy  columns  with  a  profound  an 
abysmal  book  criticism ;  a  criticism  which  carries 
you  down,  down,  down,  into  the  scientific  bowels  of 
the  subject ;  sometimes  it  gives  you  a  gay  and  chip 
per  essay  about  ancient  Grecian  funeral  customs,  or 
the  ancient  Egyptian  methods  of  tarring  a  mummy, 
or  the  reasons  for  believing  that  some  of  the  peoples 
who  existed  before  the  flood  did  not  approve  of  cats. 

These  matters  can  be  handled  in  such  a  way  as 
to  make  a  person  lowspirited. 

The   German  humorous    papers  are   beautifully 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  249 

printed,  and  the  illustrations  finely  drawn  and  deli- 
ciously  funny.  So  generally  are  the  two  or  three 
terse  sentences  which  accompany  the  picture.  I 
remember  one  where  a  most  dilapidated  tramp  is 
ruefully  contemplating  some  coins  which  lie  in  his 
open  palm.  He  says :  "  Well,  begging  is  getting 
played  out.  Only  about  5  marks,  $1.25,  for  the  whole 
day,  many  an  official  who  makes  more."  And  a  pic 
ture  of  a  commercial  traveler  who  is  about  to  unroll 
his  samples. 

Merchant  (pettishly)  —  "  No,  dont.  I  don't  want 
to  buy  anything." 

Drummer  —  "  If  you  please,  I  was  only  going  to 
show  you  — 

Merchant —  "  But  I  don't  wish  to  see  them." 

Drummer  (after  a  pause,  pleadingly)  —  "  But  do 
you  mind  letting  me  look  at  them  ?  I  havn't  seen 
them  for  three  weeks  !  !  " 

Brander  Matthews  considers  Mr.  Clemens  our 
greatest  humorist,  also  one  of  the  masters  of  Eng 
lish  prose,  one  of  the  foremost  story-tellers  of  the 
world,  with  the  gift  of  swift  narrative,  with  the  cer 
tain  grasp  of  human  nature,  with  a  rare  power  of 
presenting  character  at  a  passionate  crisis,  yet  usu 
ally  set  down  as  only  a  funny  man  or  a  newspaper 
humorist.  He  has  more  humor  than  any  one  else  of 
his  generation. 

Charles  H.  Webb,  known  as  "John  Paul,"  has 
written  much  in  the  way  of  newspaper  wit,  exceed 
ingly  droll  and  dry,  quite  unlike  his  predecessors, 


250  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

and  is,  besides,  a  writer  of  pleasant  verses  and  bur 
lesques  on  several  novels.  These  were  tremen 
dously  funny,  seizing  on  the  weak  points  of  each  and 
making  them  doubly  ridiculous.  He  is  a  quiet, 
homely  man,  with  red  hair  and  a  stutter  as  delicious 
as  was  Lamb's  hesitancy  in  getting  off  a  joke,  his 
blue  eyes  often  saying  more  than  his  tongue.  His 
letters  from  Saratoga,  the  South,  abroad,  are  capital 
and  unique.  He  says,  "  I  did  not  take  after  my 
father,  but  it  was  an  ecstatic  satisfaction  to  reflect 
how  often  that  worthy  gentleman  took  after  me  ! 

"  Never  shall  it  be  said  by  me  that  I  put  my 
hand  to  the  plough  and  turned  back ;  never  shall  it 
be  said  that  I  put  hand  to  a  plough  at  all,  unless 
a  plough  should  chase  me  upstairs  into  the  privacy 
of  my  bedroom,  and  then  I  should  only  put  hand  to 
it  for  the  purpose  of  throwing  it  out  of  the  window. 
The  beauty  of  the  farmer's  life  was  never  very  clear 
to  me." 

Autograph  albums  are  sufficiently  trying  when 
you  are  urged  to  record  some  sweet  sentiment  and 
display  your  bad  penmanship  on  poor  paper,  but 
"mental  photographs"  are  an  added  agony.  The 
truth  is  tame  in  answering  these  conundrums  and 
your  struggle  to  be  witty  and  original  is  depressing 
in  the  extreme.  Even  Mr.  Webb  made  some  stupid 
efforts,  but  one  or  two  answers  are  comical,  for 
instance  : 

"  What  is  your  favorite  object  in  Nature  ?  Two 
Bowers." 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  251 

"  Hour  in  the  day?     Bedtime." 

"  Gem  ?     Jemima." 

"  Style  of  beauty  ?     A  round  figure." 

"  What  book  (not  religious)  would  you  part  with 
last?  My  pocket-book." 

"  Where  would  you  live  ?     In  clover." 

"  What  is  your  aim  in  life  ?     Amiability." 

"  What  is  your  motto  ?  When  you  must  — you'd 
better." 

"  Max  Adeler,"  Charles  H.  Clark  of  the  Philadel 
phia  Bulletin,  objected  to  being  ranked  among  the 
professional  humorists,  as  his  life  is  earnest  and  full 
of  serious  work,  but  as  his  humor  is  among  the  most 
rollicking  and  grotesque  that  has  ever  appeared  in 
this  country,  we  cannot  afford  to  leave  him  out. 
Both  his  books,  "  Out  of  the  Hurry-Burly,"  and 
"  Elbow  Room  "  are  extremely  popular,  5,000  copies 
of  the  latter  selling  in  London  within  a  month  after 
its  appearance. 

He  is  not  a  paragraphist,  but  prefers  to  throw  his 
droll  fun  into  the  form  of  sustained  narrative. 

He  dedicates  "  Elbow  Room "  to  that  delicious 
yet  unconscious  humorist,  "  The  Intelligent  Com 
positor,"  who  transformed  "  Filtration  is  sometimes 
accomplished  with  the  assistance  of  albumen,"  into 
"  Flirtation  is  sometimes  accomplished  with  the 
resistance  of  aldermen  "  ;  made  me  inquire,  "  Where 
are  the  dead,  the  varnished  dead "  ;  also  for  this  sen 
tence,  "A  comet  swept  o'er  the  heavens  with  its 


252  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

trailing  skirt,"  substituted,    "  A  count  slept  in  the 
hay-mow  in  a  traveling  shirt." 

Such  talent  is  wonderful  and  awful.  His  obituary 
notices  in  "  Hurly-Burly,"  in  that  chapter  entitled, 
"Trouble  in  the  Sanctum,"  have  been  quoted  all 
over  the  land.  Imagine  the  surprise  of  a  bereaved 
mother  on  finding  this  tribute  to  her  darling : 

"  O  bury  Bartholomew  out  in  the  woods, 

In  a  beautiful  hole  in  the  ground, 
Where  the  bumble-bees  buzz  and  the  woodpeckers  sing, 

And  the  straddle-bugs  tumble  around, 
So  that  in  winter  when  the  snow  and  the  slush, 

Have  covered  his  last  little  bed, 
His  brother  Artemas  can  go  out  with  Sam, 

And  visit  the  place,  with  his  sled." 

Or  picture  the  feelings  of  the  estimable  family  of 
Mr.  McGlue  as  they  read  : 

"  The  death  angel  smote  Alexander  McGlue, 

And  gave  him  protracted  repose, 
He  wore  a  checked  shirt  and  a  No.  9  shoe, 

And  he  had  a  pink  wart  on  his  nose. 
No  doubt  he  is  happier  dwelling  in  space, 

Over  there  on  the  evergreen  shore. 
His  friends  are  informed  that  his  funeral  takes  place 

Precisely  at  quarter  past  four." 

The  brother's  indignant  protestations  as  to  the 
absolute  freedom  of  Alexander's  face  from  warts  of 
any  sort,  particularly  the  pink  variety,  must  be  read 
to  be  appreciated. 

There  is  a  wide  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the 
merits  of  Eli  Perkins  (Melville  D.  Landon).  Some 
pronounce  him  incomparably  funny,  others  make  all 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  253 

manner  of  fun  of  him  and  his  writings,  others  think 
him  a  disagreeable  Paul  Pry  at  Saratoga,  where  no 
one  is  safe  from  his  pen. 

At  any  rate  he  has  the  art  of  making  money, 
knows  nothing  of  the  sorrow  of  "broad  grins  under 
narrow  circumstances,"  and  draws  large  crowds  to 
his  lectures. 

He  states  that  the  first  composition  he  ever  wrote 
ran  about  thus :  "  A  eel  is  a  fish  with  its  tail  all  the 
way  up  to  his  ears.  Never  fool  with  powder.  Eli 
Perkins." 

This,  he  says,  was  the  only  original  poetry  he 
ever  wrote,  and  it  was  composed  by  another  feller. 

His  "Saratoga  in  1901,"  published  first  in  Com 
mercial  Advertiser"  and  is  full  of  facts  and  gossip 
and  lively  description  chronicling  the  anecdotes  and 
bon  mots  of  others  in  a  generous  way.  He  asks 
them  why  a  table  is  in  the  subjunctive  mood  and 
answers  :  "  Because  it's  would  (wood)  or  should  be," 
and  affirms  that  Saratoga  reminds  him  constantly  of 
home,  "  because  its  the  dearest  spot  on  earth." 

On  one  of  his  big  posters  the  other  day  was  seen, 
after  the  subject  and  testimonials  from  the  press, 
the  comfortable  assurance  that  Eli  would  surely  be 
there  at  such  a  date,  and  underneath  his  telegram : 

"  I  shall  be  on  hand.  I  invariably  attend  my 
own  lectures." 

Every  once  in  a  while  a  new  "  funny  man " 
appears.  It  is  not  so  long  ago  since  people  were 
inquiring  "  Who's  that  fellow  on  the  Danbury 


254  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

News  ? "  His  descriptions  of  the  absurd  complica 
tions  connected  with  such  household  afflictions  as 
cleaning  house,  and  putting  up  stoves,  and  hanging 
out  clothes  in  winter  time,  in  a  sleety  rain,  or  a 
man's  delirious  attempts  to  sew  on  a  button  when 
his  wife's  hand  is  disabled,  or  to  drive  a  refractory 
hen  into  a  coop,  or  a  cow  out  of  the  garden,  are 
side-splitting ;  fine  illustrations  of  the  "  total  de 
pravity  of  inanimate  objects  "  and  "  the  perversity  of 
things  in  general."  His  special  peculiarity  is  the 
effective  use  of  the  word  "that;"  "that  horse"  or 
"  that  boy  "  sounding  much  more  comical  than  "  the 
boy  "  or  "  the  horse."  His  news  items  are  capital  in 
their  way,  such  as  "A  King  St.  man's  name  is  so 
long  he  can  knock  down  apples  with  it,"  or,  "A 
Danbury  agriculturist  has  put  a  bundle  of  straw 
upon  his  barn  because  straws  show  which  way  the 
wind  blows." 

He  is  good  in  such  a  paragraph  as  this : 

"  We  can  never  tell  exactly  where  we  lose  our 
umbrellas.  It  is  singular  how  gently  an  umbrella 
unclasps  itself  from  the  tendrils  of  our  mind  and 
floats  out  into  the  filmy  distance  of  nothingness." 

Mr.  Bailey  is,  however,  at  his  very  best  in  detail 
ing  a  family  squabble  over  some  ludicrous  trouble, 
as  a  bureau  drawer  that  won't  be  managed. 

"The  man  who  will  invent  a  bureau  drawer  which 
will  move  out  and  in  without  a  hitch,  will  not  only 
secure  a  fortune,  but  will  attain  to  an  eminence  in 
history  not  second,  perhaps,  to  the  greatest  warriors. 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  255 

There  is  nothing,  perhaps  (always  excepting  a  stove 
pipe),  that  will  so  exasperate  a  man  as  a  bureau 
drawer  which  will  not  shut.  It  is  a  deceptive  arti 
cle.  It  will  start  off  all  right,  then  it  pauses  at  one 
end,  while  the  other  swings  in  as  far  as  it  can.  It  is 
the  custom  to  throw  the  whole  weight  of  the  person 
against  the  end  which  sticks.  If  any  one  has  suc 
ceeded  in  closing  a  drawer  by  so  doing,  he  will  con 
fer  a  favor  by  sending  his  address  to  this  office. 

"Mrs.  Holcomb  was  trying  to  shut  a  bureau  drawer 
Saturday  morning ;  but  it  was  an  abortive  effort. 
Finally  she  burst  into  tears.  Then  Mr.  Holcomb 
told  her  to  stand  aside  and  see  him  do  it.  '  You  see,' 
observed  Mr.  Holcomb,  with  quiet  dignity,  '  that  the 
drawer  is  all  awry.  Now,  anybody  but  a  woman 
would  see  at  once,  that  to  move  a  drawer  standing  in 
that  position  would  be  impossible.  I  now  bring  this 
other  end  even  with  the  other,  so,  then  I  take  hold  of 
both  knobs  and  with  an  equal  pressure  from  each 
hand,  the  drawer  moves  easily  in.  See  ? '  The 
dreadful  thing  moved  readily  forward  for  a  distance 
of  nearly  two  inches,  then  it  stopped  abruptly  !  " 

"  '  Ah  ! '  observed  Mrs.  Holcomb,  beginning  to 
look  happy  again.  Mr.  Holcomb  very  properly  made 
no  response  to  this  ungenerous  expression  ;  but  he 
gently  worked  each  end  of  the  drawer  to  and  fro, 
but  without  success. 

"  Then  he  pulled  the  drawer  all  out,  adjusted  it 
properly,  and  started  it  carefully  back ;  it  moved  as 
if  it  were  on  oiled  wheels. 


256  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

"  Mr.  Holcomb  smiled. 

"  Then  it  stopped. 

"  Mr.  Holcomb  looked  solemn. 

"  '  Perhaps  you  haven't  got  the  ends  adjusted,'  sug 
gested  the  happy  Mrs.  Holcomb. 

"  Mr.  Holcomb  made  no  reply,  were  it  not  for  an 
increased  flush  in  his  face  it  might  have  been  doubted 
if  he  heard  the  remark  at  all.  He  pushed  harder  at 
the  drawer  than  was  apparent  to  her,  but  it  didn't 
move.  He  tried  to  bring  it  back  again  ;  but  it  would 
not  come. 

"  '  What  dumb  fool  put  this  drawer  together,  I'd 
like  to  know  ? '  he  snapped  out. 

"  She  made  no  reply,  but  she  felt  that  she  had  not 
known  such  happiness  since  the  day  she  stood  before 
the  altar  with  him,  with  orange  blossoms  in  her  hair. 

" '  I'd  like  to  know  what  in  thunder  you've  been 
doing  to  this  drawer,  Jane  Holcomb,'  he  jerked  out. 

"  '  I  haven't  done  anything  to  it,'  she  replied. 

"  '  I  know  better,'  he  asserted. 

"  'Well,  know  what  you  please,  for  all  I  care,'  she 
sympathizingly  retorted.  The  cords  swelled  up  on 
his  neck  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  grew  white. 

" '  Are  you  sure  you  have  got  everything  out  of 
here  you  want,'  he  finally  asked,  with  a  desperate 
effort  to  appear  composed. 

" '  O  !  that's  what  you  are  stopping  for,  is  it  ?  But 
you  needn't ;  I  have  got  what  I  wanted  ;  you  can 
shut  it  right  up.' 

"  He  grew  redder  in  the  face  and  set  his  teeth 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  257 

firmly  together,  and  put  all  his  strength  to  the  obdu 
rate  drawer,  while  a  hard  look  gleamed  in  his  eye. 

"  But  it  did  not  move. 

"  He  pushed  harder  and  groaned. 

"  '  I'm  afraid  you  havn't  got  the  ends  adjusted,' 
she  maliciously  suggested. 

"'I'll  shut  that  drawer  or  I'll  know  the  reason  of 
it/  he  shouted,  and  he  jumped  up  and  gave  it  a  pas 
sionate  kick. 

"  '  O,  my  !  '  she  exclaimed. 

"  He  dropped  on  his  knees  again,  and  grabbed 
hold  of  the  knobs,  and  pushed  at  them  with  all  his 
might.  But  it  didn't  move. 

"'Why  in  heaven's  name  don't  you  open  the 
window  ?  Do  you  want  to  smother  me,'  he  cried. 

"  It  was  warm,  dreadfully  warm.  The  perspira 
tion  stood  in  great  drops  on  his  face  or  ra"n  down  into 
his  neck.  The  birds  sang  merrily  outside  the  door, 
and  the  glad  sunshine  lay  in  golden  sheets  on  the 
earth  ;  but  he  didn't  notice  them.  He  would  have 
given  five  dollars  if  he  had  not  touched  the  accursed 
bureau ;  he  would  have  given  ten  if  he  had  never 
been  born.  He  threw  all  his  weight  on  both  knobs, 
it  moved,  then  it  went  to  its  place  with  a  suddenness 
that  threw  him  from  his  balance  and  brought  his 
burning  face  against  the  bureau  with  force  enough 
to  skin  his  nose  and  fill  his  eyes  with  water  to  a  de 
gree  that  was  blinding.  Then  he  went  out  on  the 
back  stoop  and  sat  there  for  an  hour  scowling  at  the 
scenery." 


258  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

Mr.  Bailey  described  constitutional  irritability  in 
a  peculiar  manner.  His  only  object  was  to  cause 
laughter,  but  the  utility  of  his  work  was  presently 
seen  to  be  outrunning  his  intentions.  With  the  ex 
ception  of  some  fine  descriptive  writing  in  his  letters 
from  England,  he  seems  to  have  shown  little  earnest 
ness  of  purpose.  But  he  has  admirably  ridiculed  a 
serious  defect  of  human  nature.  Undoubtedly,  many 
a  passionate  man  who  has  been  ready  to  shriek  with 
rage  at  some  small  pin-point  of  a  circumstance,  has 
suddenly  caught  the  ridiculous  impression  of  the 
affair,  and  subsided  from  his  high-strung  condition 
into  one  of  laughter.  This  is  absolute  gain.  Spinoza 
has  demonstrated  that  in  the  condition  of  cheerful 
ness  we  are  nearer  real  existence  —  live  more  —  than 
in  a  condition  of  pain,  which  causes  a  lessening  of 
our  existence  through  reason. 

Mr.  Lanigan  of  the  New  York  World  has  pub 
lished  there  a  series  of  inimitable  fables,  quite  eclips 
ing  ^Esop  with  his  cynical  moral,  and  these  unique 
fables  are  illustrated  by  Church,  so  that  the  pictures 
are  as  good  as  the  text : 

THE  KIND-HEARTED  SHE-ELETHANT. 

A  kind-hearted  She- Elephant,  while  walking  through  the  Jun 
gle  where  the  Spicy  Breezes  blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  Isle,  heed 
lessly  set  foot  upon  a  Partridge,  which  she  crushed  to  death  within 
a  few  inches  of  the  Nest  containing  its  Callow  Brood.  "  Poor 
little  things!"  said  the  generous  Mammoth,  "I  have  been  a 
Mother  myself,  and  my  affection  shall  atone  for  the  Fatal  Conse- 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  259 

quences  of  my   Neglect."     So   saying,  she   sat  down  upon    the 
Orphaned  Birds. 

Moral. —  The  above  Teaches  us  What  Home  is  Without  a 
Mother  ;  also,  that  it  is  not  every  Person  who  should  be  intrusted 
with  the  Care  of  an  Orphan  Asylum. 

THE  LION  AND  THE  INSURANCE  AGENT. 

An  Insurance  Agent  happening  to  meet  a  Lion,  asked  him  if 
he  would  insure  his  Life.  "  No,"  responded  the  Monarch  of  the 
Forest  with  a  resounding  Roar,  "  nor  yours."  Thus  saying  he 
tore  the  unhappy  Man  to  pieces,  and  fed  on  his  damaged  Cheek 
and  other  more  penetrable  Portions. 

Moral. —  There  is  such  a  Thing  as  being  instant  out  of  Season. 

THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  ANT. 

A  Frivolous  Grasshopper,  having  spent  the  Summer  in  Mirth 
and  Revelry,  went  on  the  Approach  of  the  inclement  Winter  to  the 
Ant,  and  implored  it  of  its  charity  to  stake  him.  "  You  had  better 
go  to  your  Uncle,"  replied  the  prudent  Ant ;  had  you  imitated  my 
Forethought  and  deposited  your  Funds  in  a  Savings  Bank  you 
would  not  now  be  compelled  to  regard  your  Duster  in  the  light  of 
an  Ulster."  Thus  saying,  the  virtuous  Ant  retired,  and  read  in 
the  Papers  next  morning  that  the  Savings  Bank  where  he  had 
deposited  his  Funds  had  suspended. 

Moral. —  DUJII   Vivimus,   Vtvamus. 

THE  Two  TURKEYS. 

An  Honest  Farmer  once  led  his  two  Turkeys  into  his  Granary 
and  told  them  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry.  One  of  these  Turkeys 
was  wise  and  one  foolish.  The  foolish  Bird  at  once  indulged 
excessively  in  the  Pleasures  of  the  Stable,  unsuspicious  of  the 
Future,  but  the  wiser  Fowl,  in  order  that  he  might  not  be  fattened 
and  slaughtered,  fasted  continually,  mortified  his  Flesh  and 
devoted  himself  to  gloomy  Reflections  upon  the  brevity  of  Life. 
When  Thanksgiving  approached,  the  Honest  Farmer  killed  both 


260  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

Turkeys,  and  by  placing  a  Rock  in  the  interior  of    the  Prudent 
Turkey  made  him  weigh  more  than  his  plumper  Brother. 

Moral. —  As  we  Travel  through  Life,  Let  us  Live  by  the 
Way. 

Burdette  is  one  of  the  best  of  our  popular  para- 
graphists.  Banter,  badinage,  burlesque,  irony, 
verse,  repartee,  narrative,  and  lecture,  from  quiet 
humor  to  the  wildest  buffoonery,  he  is  at  home  in 
all,  a  man  of  daring  fun  and  extreme  versatility. 

"  The  body  of  a  tramp  was  found  beside  a  hay 
stack  out  in  Sac  County  one  day  last  week,  nearly 
devoured  by  rats.  As  ^Esop  remarked,  'Mus  —  et 
rusticus.' " 

From  the  Hawkcye  Humorist  : 

"  Woman  is  a  natural  traveler.  It  is  a  study  to 
see  her  start  off  on  a  trip  by  herself.  She  comes 
down  to  the  depot  in  an  express  wagon  three  hours 
before  train  time.  She  insists  on  sitting  on  her 
trunk  out  on  the  platform,  to  keep  it  from  being 
stolen.  She  picks  up  her  reticule,  fan,  parasol, 
lunch-basket,  small  pot  with  a  house  plant  in  it, 
shawl,  paper  bag  of  candy,  bouquet,  (she  never 
travels  without  one),  small  tumbler  and  extra  veil, 
and  chases  hysterically  after  every  switch  engine 
that  goes  by,  under  the  impression  that  it  is  her 
train.  Her  voice  trembles  as  she  presents  herself  at 
the  restaurant  and  tries  to  buy  a  ticket,  and  she 
knocks  with  the  handle  of  her  parasol  on  the  door  of 
the  old  disused  tool-house,  in  vain  hopes  that  the 
baggage-man  will  come  out  and  check  her  trunk. 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  261 

She  asks  everybody  in  the  depot  and  on  the  plat 
form  when  the  train  will  start,  and  where  it  will 
stand,  and,  looking  straight  at  the  great  clock,  asks : 
'  What  time  is  it  now  ? '  She  sees  with  terror  the 
baggage-man  shy  her  trunk  into  a  car  where  two 
men  are  smoking  instead  of  locking  it  up  by  itself 
in  a  large,  strong,  brown  car,  with  '  Bad  order  shops ' 
chalked  on  the  side,  which  she  has  long  ago  de 
termined  to  be  the  baggage  car,  as  the  only  safe  one 
in  sight.  Although  the  first  at  the  depot  she  is  the 
last  to  get  her  ticket,  and  once  on  the  car  she  sits  to 
the  end  of  her  journey  in  an  agony  of  apprehension 
that  she  has  got  on  the  wrong  train,  and  will  be 
landed  at  some  strange  station,  put  in  a  close  car 
riage,  drugged  and  murdered,  and  to  every  last  male 
passenger  who  walks  down  the  aisle  she  stands  up 
and  presents  her  ticket  which  she  invariably  carries 
in  her  hand.  She  finally  recognizes  her  waiting 
friends  on  the  platform,  leaves  the  car  in  a  burst  of 
gratitude,  and  the  train  is  ten  miles  away  before  she 
remembers  that  her  reticule,  fan,  parasol,  lunch- 
basket,  verbena,  shawl,  candy,  tumbler,  veil,  and 
bouquet  are  on  the  car-seat,  where  she  left  them  or 
at  the  depot  in  Peoria,  for  the  life  of  her  she  can't 
tell  which." 

I  have  the  good  fortune  to  know,  as  friends,  many 
of  the  wits  of  the  New  York  press ;  among  them, 
Mr.  Alden,  who  delighted  his  friends  with  his  "  Sixth 
Column  Fancies  "  and  "  Shooting  Stars  "  in  the  Daily 
Times,  Mr.  Croffut,  author  of  the  "  Cumedietta  of 


262  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

Deseret,"  the  Bourbon  ballads,  and  for  several  years 
connected  with  the  Graphic,  and  known  widely  by 
his  witty  doggerel  and  "  Graphicalities."  This  dog 
gerel  is,  perhaps,  too  funny,  but  it  is  Croffut's  and 
shall  go  in. 

"WHY  IS  A  —  ?" 

"  Willie,  here's  a  conundrum  —  Why's  a —  " 
Then,  as  she  stammered  and  paused  to  think, 

He  cried,  "  Shoot  it  off  !     Whoop  'er  up,  'Liza  ! 
Bet  y'  I'll  guess  it  quicker'n  wink." 

"  Wait,  Impatience  !     Give  me  a  minute  —  " 
She  pleaded,  then  said  :  "  What  crime  is  a  tar  — 

And  stuck  once  more.     "  There's  a  good  joke  in  it  ! " 
She  added,  while  he,  "  How  slow  you  are  !  " 

Again  she  began,  "  What  crime  does  a  sailor, 

In  a  soldier's  quarters  taken  sick, 
Resemble  ?  Now,  then,  you  noisy  railer  ! 

Just  guess  it !  Give  us  the  answer  quick  1  " 

He  guessed  three  weeks,  and  didn't  get  nigh  it ; 

Ate  fish  to  strengthen  his  phosphoric  brain  ; 
Set  all  his  ingenious  friends  to  try  it ; 

Then  got  shampooed,  and  went  at  it  again. 

At  last  he  gave  up,  and  she  told  the  answer  : 
"  A  sailor  took  sick  in  such  a  place,  Will, 

Is  like  an  attempt  to  murder  a  man,  sir  ! 
You  see  he's  a  salt  within  tent  took  ill  !  " 

A  shriek  like  the  whoop  of  a  Sioux  he  uttered, 
Then  fell  in  a  swoon.     They  poulticed  his  head  ; 

In  a  week  they  saw  that  his  pulse  still  fluttered  ; 
In  a  month  they  bolstered  him  up  in  bed. 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  263 

The  doctor  sought  Eliza  to  tell  her, 

1 '  Your  William  is  crazy  ;  observe  that  grin  ;  • 

His  mind  still  wanders  ;  you'll  kill  that  feller 
'F  you  ever  conundrum  to  him  agin  ! " 

W.    A.  C. 


Such  clippings  or  sippings  of  American  punch 
would  prove  a  pleasant  beverage  in  a  dull  day. 
Take,  for  instance,  this  soliloquy  from  a  little  paper 
in  Arkansas  : 

"  vSome  of  our  exchanges  are  publishing  a  curious 
item  to  the  effect,  that  a  horse  in  Iowa  pulled  the 
plug  out  of  the  bunghole  of  a  barrel  for  the  purpose 
of  slaking  his  thirst.  We  do  not  see  anything  extraor 
dinary  in  the  occurrence.  Now,  if  the  horse  had 
pulled  the  barrel  out  of  the  bunghole  and  slaked  his 
thirst  with  the  plug,  or  if  the  barrel  had  pulled  the 
bunghole  out  of  the  horse  and  slaked  its  thirst  with 
the  plug,  or  if  the  barrel  had  pulled  the  bunghole  out 
of  the  plug  and  slaked  its  thirst  with  the  horse,  or  if 
the  plug  had  pulled  the  horse  out  of  the  barrel  and 
slaked  its  thirst  with  the  bunghole,  or  if  the  bung- 
hole  had  pulled  the  thirst  out  of  the  horse  and  slaked 
the  plug  with  the  barrel,  or  if  the  barrel  had  pulled 
the  horse  out  of  the  bunghole  and  plugged  its  thirst 
with  the  slake,  it  might  be  worth  while  to  make  a 
fuss  about  it." 

To  personate  folly  a  writer  must  appear  foolish. 
If  he  represents  the  ludicrous  in  life,  he  must  often 
play  the  buffoon,  which,  by  the  way,  is  a  very  diffi 
cult  part,  and  is  generally  given  a  higher  place  on 


264  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

the  stage   than   heavy   tragedy.      Gravity,    owl-like 
gravity,  is  often  a  badge  of  mediocrity. 

Comic  journalism  did  not  thrive  at  first  in  the 
United  States.  The  people  were  too  serious ;  life 
was  too  earnest  to  stop  to  smile  over  a  purely  amus 
ing  paper.  But  Puck,  Life,  The  Judge,  and  a  half 
dozen  other  funny  sheets  now  manage  to  keep  a 
strong  hold  on  the  public.  Hudson  said,  sometime 
ago  :  "  Our  people  don't  want  their  wit  on  a  separate 
dish.  No  one  can  always  be  funny.  Weekly  drafts, 
like  a  run  on  a  bank,  tend  to  exhaust  them."  There 
are  other  newspaper  wits  that  should  be  mentioned, 
as  Halleck  and  Drake  in  their  famous  "  Croaker  " 
papers ;  Joseph  Neal  with  his  "  Charcoal  sketches  "  ; 
Lewis  Gaylord  Clark  of  the  "  Knickerbocker  "  Maga 
zine  ;  and  later,  Will  M.  Carleton  and  Charles  Follen 
Adams,  best  known  by  his  perfect  poem  of  "  Leedle 
Yacob  Strauss  "  ;  but  writing  comical  verses  all  the 
time  that  appeal  to  the  heart,  while  they  raise  a 
smile. 

Wit,  humor  that  is  full  of  absurd  exaggerations, 
and  fun  of  an  essentially  American  type,  bubble 
up  spontaneously  all  over  our  country  as  freely  as 
the  oil  wells  of  Pennsylvania.  Even  the  religious 
weeklies  have  now  a  funny  column,  and  some  of  the 
paragraphs  in  our  best  dailies  sparkle  with  wit  that 
deserves  a  longer  life. 

The  humor  of  the  newspapers  is  a  natural  and 
wholesome  product  of  our  national  development. 
We  are  a  nation  of  newspaper  readers.  The  daily 


Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits  265 

and  weekly  journals  reflect  every  phase  of  our  busy 
progressive  life,  and  aim  to  keep  pace  with,  if  not  to 
direct  the  intellectual  growth  of  the  people.  A  col 
umn  which  presents  the  current  wit  and  humor  of 
the  day  has  become  an  essential  department  of  every 
good  paper.  From  the  harrowing  details  of  a  railroad 
accident  on  the  first  page,  and  from  the  scarcely  less 
depressing  editorial  struggle  with  the  tariff  question, 
we  turn  with  restful  relief  to  the  grotesque  wit  of 
Bill  Nye  or  the  commonsense  humor  of  Bob  Burdette. 
In  the  string  of  paragraphs  clipped  from  the 
funny  columns  all  over  the  land,  there  is  material 
for  a  surer  "  Elixir  of  Life  "  than  can  ever  be  educed 
from  pulverized  rabbit  or  solution  of  French  Guinea 

Pig- 
Let  us  not  forget  the  pioneers  in  this  good  work, 
rough   and   coarse,  but  individual   and  interesting, 
they  are  not  surpassed  by  their  successors. 

The  special  characteristics  of  American  humor 
can  be  traced  back  to  the  dry  maxims  and  shrewd 
sense  of  Benjamin  Franklin  when  the  habits  of  our 
people  were  simpler  and  the  scope  of  the  press  nar 
rower.  A  good  joke  or  story  found  no  means  of 
general  circulation,  unless  through  the  humble  me 
dium  of  the  traveling  clown  or  negro  minstrel.  Even 
in  the  enterprising  newspaper  of  the  present  day 
there  appears  now  and  then  some  weather-beaten 
pleasantry,  which,  to  the  boy  of  forty  years  ago,  is 
suggestive  of  the  burnt  cork  of  the  minstrel  or  the 
cap  and  bells  of  the  circus  clown,  now  almost  crowded 


266  Our  Early  Newspaper  Wits 

out  of  the  arena  by  better  things.  In  the  rush  and 
worry  of  modern  life  the  humorist  has  found  a  larger 
field ;  many  brilliant  names  have  been  added  to  the 
roll  of  newspaper  wits,  but  those  first  in  the  field 
have  never  been  eclipsed. 


MADAME  DE  GENLIS. 


Only  France,  that  land  of  fascinating  women  and 
phenomenal  individualities,  could  have  produced  a 
Madame  de  Genlis.  Brilliant,  yet  tedious  ;  sensible, 
absurd  ;  amiable,  resentful ;  eccentric,  conventional ; 
the  author  of  nearly  one  hundred  volumes  —  sober 
works  on  education,  and  worldly  novels  of  very 
questionable  influence,  poems  and  history,  biography 
and  botany,  natural  history  and  etiquette,  religion 
and  malicious  scandal ;  alternating  between  court 
and  convent  for  nearly  a  century  ;  adored  and  hated ; 
praised  and  vindicated;  regarded  as  a  saint  and 
sinner ;  a  shameless  intriguante  and  a  French 
Hannah  More !  Was  she  not  a  captivating  bundle 
of  opposite  qualities  ?  I  cannot  claim  genius  for 
my  heroine,  nor  a  large  amount  of  the  piety  and 
prudery  she  professed ;  but  as  the  Governor  of 
Princes  (for  Governor  she  would  be  called)  while  a 
most  successful  writer  for  children,  when  stories  for 
children  were  almost  unknown  ;  as  a  popular  novel 
ist  ;  as  an  extraordinary  and  entertaining  person, 
whose  life  affords  both  amusement  and  instruction 
—  she  is  a  marked  character,  a  power  in  her  day,  a 
type  of  the  ancient  nobility  of  France  ;  as  regards 


268  Madame  De  Genlis 

her  social  life,  of  a  vanity  that  was  at  once  sublime 
and  ridiculous. 

She  was  born  on  the  25th  of  January,  1/46,  on  a 
little  estate  in  Burgundy,  such  a  puny  infant  that  it 
was  not  thought  worth  while  to  dress  her  ;  so  she 
was  sewed  up  in  a  down  pillow,  and  the  atom  was 
laid  in  an  armchair,  to  struggle  with  life  or  die. 
In  a  few  moments  the  corpulent  mayor,  almost  blind, 
came  to  pay  his  visit  of  congratulation,  and  separat 
ing  the  huge  flaps  of  his  overcoat,  was  just  about  to 
sit  down  in  that  very  chair  when  the  nurse  screamed 
and  pulled  him  away.  And  in  her  Memoirs  she 
remarks,  with  her  usual  conceit :  "  It  was  not  the 
good  nurse  who  saved  me ;  no,  it  was  God  himself, 
acting  by  her  instrumentality.  He  had  given  me  a 
mission  upon  earth,  which  he  decreed  should  be 
fulfilled." 

She  had  the  usual  joys,  sorrows,  and  hair-breadth 
'scapes  of  childhood  —  was  nearly  drowned  at  eight 
een  months  —  soon  after  tumbled  into  the  kitchen 
fire  —  had  a  dangerous  fall  at  five  —  but  bore  a 
charmed  life. 

Her  father  had  purchased  a  large  estate,  beauti 
fully  situated.  Its  chateau  resembled  those  de 
scribed  by  Mrs.  Radcliffe ;  ancient  and  tumble 
down,  with  old  towers  and  immense  courtyards,  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  Loire,  near  the  famous 
Abbey  of  Sept-Font's,  where  perpetual  silence 
reigned ;  and  her  father,  when  the  children  were 
too  noisy  in  their  evening  games,  would  propose 


Madame  De  Genlis  269 

they  should  play  here  the  holy  fathers  of  Sept-Font, 
which  changed  the  riotous  frolic  into  peaceful 
pantomime. 

When  the  little  girl  was  six  years  old  her  mother 
took  her  to  Paris  to  visit  an  aunt,  and  she  describes 
graphically  the  horrors  to  which  she  was  subjected, 
in  order  to  be  made  stylish  and  graceful.  She  had 
two  teeth  pulled  out,  was  squeezed  into  stiff  corsets, 
which  pinched  her  terribly,  her  feet  were  imprisoned 
in  tight  shoes,  so  that  she  could  not  take  a  step 
without  pain,  three  or  four  thousand  curl  papers 
(this  is  her  estimate)  were  used  to  twist  her  hair,  and 
she  wore,  for  the  first  time,  a  hoop.  Then,  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  her  country  attitudes,  she  had  an  iron 
collar  put  round  her  neck  ;  and  as  the  unfortunate 
little  tot  squinted  slightly,  she  was  obliged  to  wear 
goggles  four  hours  each  day,  and  was,  besides,  for 
bidden  to  run,  jump,  or  ask  questions !  Paris  was 
anything  but  a  paradise  to  her  then  ;  but  soon  came 
the  great  ceremony  of  her  public  baptism,  after 
which  (loaded  with  candies  and  playthings)  she  was 
taken  to  the  opera,  and  life  looked  bright  again. 
She  was,  she  tells  us,  "  a  child  of  remarkable  sweet 
ness  of  disposition." 

The  next  great  event  was  her  being  received  as 
a  Canoness  of  the  noble  chapter  of  St.  Alix,  as  an 
honorary  novitiate ;  the  Grand  Prior  having  dis 
cerned  the  "  aureole  of  moral  grandeur  upon  her 
youthful  brow."  This  dignity  confers  the  title  of 
Countess.  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Lancy  was  con- 


270  Madame  De  Genlis 

ducted  in  pomp  to  the  church,  a  consecrated  ring 
placed  on  her  finger,  and  she  was  decorated  with  the 
signs  of  the  order. 

Her  education  was  almost  totally  neglected,  for 
her  governess  had,  as  she  expresses  it,  "  nothing  of 
profane  knowledge  "  ;  so  history  and  other  serious 
studies  were  soon  abandoned,  and  she  was  never 
taught  to  write  at  all.  Her  mother  was  busy  with 
society  and  her  own  interests,  and  never  saw  her 
except  at  meals.  Her  father,  a  handsome  man,  fond 
of  music  and  philosophy  and  hunting,  seemed  only 
anxious  to  conquer  her  womanish  antipathies  to 
mice  and  toads  and  spiders,  he  insisted  on  her  tam 
ing  a  mouse,  and  frequently  obliged  her  to  catch 
spiders  with  her  fingers  and  hold  toads  in  her  hands, 
but  never  succeeded  in  removing  the  aversion. 

At  eight  Felicite  dictated  romances  and  comedies 
to  Mademoiselle  de  Mars,  when  she  did  not  know 
how  to  form  a  single  letter ;  and  she  remarks : 
"  Even  in  the  reveries  of  my  infancy  there  was  a 
foundation  of  love,  of  glory,  and  of  virtue,  which  in 
a  child  must  be  thought  remarkable."  Her  brother, 
she  says,  was  far  from  being  so  brilliant  and  remark 
able  a  child  as  she  was  ! 

A  fondness  for  music  and  for  teaching  was 
inborn.  She  used  to  get  out  of  her  window  by  a 
rope,  and,  sliding  down  to  the  terrace,  gather  the 
boys  of  the  village  about  her  to  teach  them  the  little 
she  knew  —  poetry  she  had  committed  to  memory, 
and  bits  from  the  Catechism.  In  after  years  she  was 


Madame  De  Genlis  271 

ambitious  to  officiate  as  schoolma'am  in  general  to  all 
France,  and  felt  abundantly  able  to  fill  the  position. 

In  1755  her  father,  of  whom  we  hear  little,  went 
to  Paris  and  remained  eighteen  months.  Her  mother 
resolved  to  prepare  a.  fete  to  celebrate  his  return,  and 
composed  a  comedietta  in  the  pastoral  style,  in 
which  the  pretty  daughter  took  the  part  of  Love. 
Tragedies  were  also  performed,  and  we  imagine  the 
fashionable  wife  was  more  anxious  to  enliven  the 
dull  monotony  of  the  country  than  to  honor  her  hus 
band,  whose  long  absence  was  endured  with  great 
composure.  As  Iphigenia,  Felicite  was  gorgeously 
arrayed  in  cherry  silk  and  silver,  trimmed  with 
sables  ;  but  her  costume  as  Cupid  was  so  becoming 
that  she  ^  wore  it  regularly.  The  wings  were  sup 
pressed  on  Sundays,  and  she  adopted  a  red  riding- 
hood  cloak ;  but  during  the  week  she  rambled  and 
danced  over  the  fields  with  a  short  rose-colored  dress 
trimmed  with  lace  and  artificial  flowers,  blue  wings, 
long  hair  floating,  quiver  on  shoulder,  and  bow  in 
hand  ;  and  this  chronic  masquerade  was  indulged  in 
for  nearly  a  year.  This  alone  was  enough  to  tinge 
her  whole  life  with  romance.  Her  talent  for  acting 
was  always  remarkable. 

Her  next  attire  was  a  regular  boy's  dress,  and  she 
took  daily  lessons  in  fencing,  as  in  dancing.  She 
praises  her  own  agility,  grace,  and  musical  skill  at 
this  age,  and  also  declares  that  she  could  read  char 
acter  from  the  face  with  unerring  instinct.  She 
delighted  in  building  air-castles,  figuring  for  herself 


272  Madame  De  Genlis 

an  extraordinary  and  brilliant  destiny,  with  persecu 
tions  and  reverses  of  fortune  no  stranger  than  those 
which  actually  occurred. 

Lovers  came  while  she  was  in  short  dresses,  and 
kept  coming  in  crowds  till  she  was  quite  an  old  lady 
—  she,  of  course,  always  surprised,  always  cool  and 
cruel,  with  often  fatal  effect.  "  I  was  but  eleven 
years  old,"  she  writes,  "  and  small  of  my  age,  when 
I  inspired  the  first  passion  —  at  least,  the  first  avowed 
passion  —  quite  unconsciously.  I  even  felt  shocked, 
grieved,  when  the  son  of  one  Pinat,  an  apothecary, 
proclaimed  a  devotion  which  he  could  no  longer  con 
ceal,  in  verses  glowing  with  a  Sappho's  fire.  If 
there  was  no  other  proof  of  the  distraction  of  mind, 
the  delirium  of  love,  with  which  Louis  Pinat  was 
afflicted,  it  would  be  manifest  in  the  fact  that  he  had 
overlooked  the  impassable  gulf  which  must  ever 
separate  noblemen  and  apothecaries."  She  advised 
him  to  leave  that  part  of  the  country  before  the 
mischief  already  done  was  irremediable.  He  yielded 
and  departed  for  Paris.  Another,  conscious  of  the 
hopeless  disparity  in  years,  sought  safety  in  flight. 
and  ultimately  succeeded  in  banishing  her  image 
from  his  memory.  A  young  and  promising  lawyer 
was  the  next  victim  ;  refused,  he  at  first  contem 
plated  suicide,  but  changed  his  mind,  and  emigrated 
to  St.  Domingo.  Poor  Baron  de  Zeolachen,  Colonel 
of  Swiss  Guards  and  eighty  years  of  age,  fell  hope 
lessly  in  love  with  the  irresistible  maiden  ;  she  was 


Madame  De  Genlis  273 

inexorable  as  ever,  and  "  his  days "  (records  his 
destroyer)  "  were  shortened." 

The  next  winter  was  spent  in  Paris,  and  she  re 
members  listening  to  Marmontel  as  he  read  his  tale 
of  "  The  Self-styled  Philosopher  "  to  her  aunt,  little 
thinking  that  the  quiet  girl  in  the  corner  would  one 
day  be  one  of  his  severest  critics  and  rouse  his  bitter 
enmity.  She  now  began  to  compose  verses  very 
creditable  for  a  child.  One  gentleman  thought  them 
wonderful,  copied  several  to  show  to  his  friends,  and 
presented  the  poetess  with  a  copy  of  Rousseau's  Odes 
and  Sacred  Poems  (a  French  lyric  poet,  not  to  be 
confounded  with  Jean  Jacques).  One  of  the  little 
red  morocco  volumes  was  always  in  her  pocket ;  she 
committed  all  to  memory,  and  recited  them  with 
great  expression.  The  giver  urged  her  to  read  con 
stantly,  but  this  was  impossible,  as  her  aunt  was  a 
woman  of  the  world  and  had  few  books  ;  but  she  suc 
ceeded  in  procuring  the  libretto  of  a  Gascon  opera, 
and  had  fallen  asleep  while  reading  in  bed ;  the  can 
dle  set  fire  to  the  curtains,  and  her  mother,  stealing 
in  with  a  pleasant  surprise  —  an  elegant  bracelet, 
with  her  miniature  set  in  opals  and  emeralds,  which 
she  intended  to  put  on  her  arm  —  found  the  chamber 
full  of  suffocating  smoke,  and  in  ten  minutes  later 
the  unconscious  prodigy  would  have  been  lost  to  the 
world. 

Her  father,  after  some  despairing  struggles 
against  adverse  fate,  sold  his  marquisate  and  chateau 
to  meet  the  demands  of  creditors,  and  went  to  St. 


274  Madame  De  Genlis 

Domingo,  hoping  to  reestablish  his  fortune  by  a 
speculation  in  sugar.  Failing  in  this,  he  was  taken 
prisoner  by  an  English  ship  when  returning  to 
France,  and  carried  to  Launceton,  where  he  formed 
an  intimacy  with  a  fellow-prisoner  —  Comte  de 
Genlis,  a  younger  son  of  a  noble  French  family,  who 
had  served  in  the  navy  in  the  East  Indies.  Being 
powerfully  connected  at  the  French  Court,  the  Count 
was  soon  exchanged ;  and  returning  to  Paris,  pro 
cured  the  liberation  of  M.  Ducrest,  who  lived  but  a 
short  time  afterward. 

Felicite  and  her  mother  had  been  visitors  at  the 
country  house  of  a  rich  old  gentleman,  eccentric  and 
benevolent,  who  was,  to  quote  from  Madame's  mem 
oirs,  "  enchanted  with  the  little  talents  I  possessed, 
and  said  often  with  a  profound  sigh  in  looking  at  me, 
'  What  a  pity  that  she  is  but  thirteen  ! ' '  She  played 
wonderfully  on  harp  and  guitar,  and  sang  and  danced 
like  a  professional.  It  is  said  that  Mademoiselle 
Ducrest  supported  herself  at  this  time  by  giving  les 
sons  on  the  harp,  which  was  eminently  creditable. 
In  the  French  Biographic  Universelle,  which  devotes 
many  pages  to  her  career,  it  is  said  that  she  danced 
and  played  at  the  houses  of  her  friends,  with  a  charge 
for  admission  :  she  does  not  mention  either  fact  her 
self.  Lovers  again  pleaded  their  suits.  One  old  fel 
low  wooed  her  with  a  huge  packet  sent  by  his  valet, 
containing  his  genealogy  at  full  length.  She  liked 
best  a  rich  and  handsome  widower  of  twenty-six,  but 
was  determined  to  marry  no  one  but  a  man  of  quality 


Madame  De  Genlis  275 

and  belonging  to  the  Court.  She  says  frankly,  that 
she  had  received  so  much  praise  that  vanity  had  be 
come  her  ruling  motive.  She  does  say :  "  In  spite  of 
all  the  praises  with  which  I  was  loaded,  I  was  ill  at 
ease  in  these  brilliant  parties,  and  I  discovered  two 
things:  first,  that  one  ought  not  to  enter  into  the 
great  world,  but  when  one  can  be  on  a  footing  with 
others  as  to  dress ;  and  secondly,  that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  my  talents  these  persons  would  have  had  no 
wish  to  invite  me." 

But  the  coming  man  with  all  the  requisite  qualifi 
cations  is  almost  here.  Her  father,  who  carried 
everywhere  with  him  a  box,  on  which  was  the  por 
trait  of  his  daughter  playing  the  harp,  had  shown  her 
picture  to  the  brave  young  soldier,  already  decorated 
with  the  cross  of  St.  Louis.  To  him  he  read  her 
bright  letters,  and  those  of  her  mother,  full  of  praise 
for  her  many  accomplishments,  and  glowing  accounts 
of  social  success.  Genlis  was  about  to  be  married  to 
a  lady  possessed  of  40,000  francs  a  year.  But  he  was 
genuinely  in  love.  The  mother  and  daughter  had 
retired  to  a  convent  after  the  father's  death,  and 
thither  the  Count  followed  them,  and  was  soon  mar 
ried  secretly  and  at  midnight.  It  was  a  union  with 
love  on  one  side,  pure  ambition  on  the  other.  His 
rich  relatives  were  angry  and  disgusted,  and  refused 
to  see  either  for  some  years. 

When  he  was  ordered  to  join  his  regiment,  the 
bride,  only  fifteen,  was  placed  in  a  convent,  where 
her  vivacity  and  irrepressible  love  of  excitement 


276  Madame  De  Genlis 

were  constantly  bubbling  over  in  wild  pranks  with 
the  staid  old  nuns ;  running  about  the  corridors  at 
night  in  strange  disguises,  sometimes  attired  as  the 
devil  himself,  with  horns  on  her  merry  head,  and  her 
pretty  face  blackened.  Or  she  would  steal  into  the 
cells  of  deaf  old  sisters,  and  paint  their  withered 
cheeks  with  rouge,  or  patch  them  for  mutual  surprise, 
when  they  rose  for  matins,  and  many  a  dance  was 
given  in  her  apartments,  music  being  provided  by  an 
aged  fiddler.  Her  mornings  were  devoted  to  music 
and  reading,  and  long  letters  to  her  mother  and  her 
husband.  Little  plays  were  composed  in  honor  of  a 
visit  from  her  mother,  from  which  she  continued  to 
get  a  great  deal  of  fun,  allotting  the  different  charac 
ters  in  a  most  inappropriate  and  ridiculous  way,  and 
persuading  the  duped  performers  that  they  were 
irresistible.  Indeed,  one  old  creature  who  acted  as 
her  maid,  gray-haired,  with  bad  complexion,  and 
minus  twp  front  teeth,  was  induced  to  appear  as  a 
shepherdess,  with  a  short  white  petticoat  bordered 
with  bright  ribbon,  and  wearing  on  one  side  of  her 
head  a  jaunty  little  straw  hat  decked  with  flowers. 
Extolled  extravagantly  for  her  acting  and  graces, 
she  received  it  all  with  amazing  credulity,  and  when 
the  naughty  instigator  of  all  this  mischief  proposed 
that  this  becoming  and  appropriate  costume  be  worn 
constantly,  the  humbugged  fright  consented,  and 
paraded  about  with  a  crook,  to  the  delight  of  all  ob 
servers. 

The  school-girlish  Madame  was  so  happy  at  the 


Madame  De  Genlis  277 

convent,  that  when  her  husband  came  to  take  her  to 
their  home  at  Genlis,  she  pleaded  for  one  month 
more.  "  and  was  much  surprised  at  receiving  a  dry 
and  decided  refusal "  -  which  is  a  very  Frenchy 
picture. 

Her  practical  jokes  in  her  own  house  were  ex 
quisitely  ludicrous  in  conception  and  admirably  car 
ried  out,  and  her  vagaries  of  conduct  must  have 
caused  much  astonishment  to  her  more  commonplace 
neighbors.  With  her  sister-in-law,  both  dressed  as 
peasant  women,  she  went  about  buying  milk,  and 
they  then  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  a  bath  in  milk, 
the  surface  strewn  with  rose  leaves.  She  once  lost 
her  way  on  purpose  while  on  a  wild  boar  hunt,  just 
for  an  adventure,  hoping  to  find  a  mysterious  castle, 
with  inmates  full  of  wit  and  courtesy  eager  to  detain 
her  as  their  guest.  After  galloping  for  three  hours, 
very  hungry,  and  no  castle  in  view,  she  found  that, 
like  Goldsmith's  matron  in  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer," 
she  was  nearer  home  than  she  supposed.  She  had 
given  her  husband  a  great  fright  and  received  a  se 
vere  scolding.  When  laughed  at  as  a  fine  lady  at  a 
picnic  on  account  of  her  embroidered  white  slippers, 
she  swallowed  a  live  fish  to  prove  that  she  was  not 
dainty. 

But  now  she  began  to  study  in  earnest.  Educa 
tion  she  had  none ;  as  for  history,  she  was  so  igno 
rant  she  did  not  know  where  to  begin,  and  never  had 
heard  of  geometry ;  she  at  first  had  no  guide  in  her 
reading.  But  she  was  determined  to  lose  no  oppor- 


278  Madame  De  Genlis 

tunity  of  learning ;  it  was  her  plan  throughout  life 
to  ask  explanations  of  what  she  did  not  understand ; 
and  she  kept  a  commonplace  book  by  her  and  wrote 
in  it  each  day.  These  three  habits  would  make  any 
young  lady  well-informed. 

She  gained  some  idea  of  field  labor  and  of  garden 
ing,  went  to  see  cider  made,  visited  the  houses  of  the 
village  tradesmen  where  they  were  at  work  —  the 
carpenter,  weaver,  basket-maker,  etc. —  and  con 
stantly  practised  medicine  at  Genlis  in  partnership 
with  the  village  barber  —  a  wise  physician  —  confin 
ing  her  prescriptions  to  simple  drinks  and  nourish 
ing  broths,  moderating  the  barber's  rage  for  emetics, 
and  bled  the  peasants,  giving  thirty  sons  after  each 
bleeding.  As  was  natural,  she  soon  had  a  great  num 
ber  of  patients,  all  anxious  to  be  bled.  Phlebotomy 
was  the  rage  until  the  Count  complained  of  the  ex 
pense  of  this  treatment.  With  all  this  she  learned 
the  game  of  billiards,  and  painted  flowers  and  prac 
ticed  on  some  musical  instrument  every  day.  She 
played  well  on  half  a  dozen  —  was  a  performer  on 
the  bag-pipe,  besides  harp,  guitar,  violin,  harpischord, 
and  organ. 

She  had  real  genius  for  entertaining  her  friends, 
and  on  one  occasion  planned  a  quadrille  called  the 
Proverbs,  in  which  each  couple  formed  a  proverb  by 
their  costume,  while  the  figures  also  represented  a 
proverb,  "  Run  backwards  before  you  leap."  She 
composed  the  air  herself.  Unfortunately  for  the 
success  of  this  novel  diversion,  some  envious  gen- 


Madame  De  Genlis  279 

tlemen  who  were  not  invited  to  join  the  dance  sent 
a  Savoyard  dressed  as  a  cat  into  their  midst,  creating 
a  great  excitement.  His  proverb  was,  "  Beware  of 
waking  a  sleeping  cat." 

With  the  birth  of  her  daughter  Caroline,  the 
young  mother  became  more  serious,  and  her  first 
real  work  was,  "  Reflections  of  a  Mother  Twenty 
Years  of  Age."  This  manuscript  was  lost,  but  many 
of  its  thoughts  were  transferred  to  her  book,  "  Adele 
and  Theodore,"  which  was  translated  into  English 
by  Misses  Edgeworth  and  Holcroft.  Soon  after  her 
twentieth  birthday,  she  was  presented  at  court  by 
the  stately  uncle  and  aunt  of  her  husband,  now  com 
pletely  reconciled. 

Her  eight  volumes  of  autobiography,  written 
after  she  was  eighty,  although  absurd  from  her  con 
stant  habit  of  self-adulation,  are  full  of  interesting 
sketches  of  distinguished  men  and  women,  and 
illustrate  the  history  and  social  life  of  a  century 
agone.  In  these  recollections  she  confesses  every 
one's  faults  —  but  her  own.  The  second  volume 
opens  with  a  ludicrous  mistake  of  hers  in  regard  to 
Rousseau.  Prenele,  a  famous  comic  actor  of  that  day, 
who  could  imitate  Rousseau  to  the  life,  confides  to 
Count  de  Genlis  his  intention  of  calling  on  Madame 
as  the  eccentric  philosopher.  The  little  lady  was 
told  of  the  coming  joke,  when,  strange  to  say,  both 
gentlemen  forgot  all  about  it ;  and  when  she  heard 
that  Rousseau  was  anxious  to  make  her  acquaint 
ance,  and  hear  her  play  on  the  harp,  she  was  in 


280  Madame  De  Genlis 

great  glee,  received  the  actor  with  a  merry  laugh, 
sang  several  of  Rousseau's  songs  with  careless  ease, 
and  urged  him  to  come  next  day  to  dine.  It  was 
not  till  his  departure  that  the  misunderstanding  was 
explained.  Then  her  husband  had  his  turn  of 
laughing  immoderately  ;  and  it  was  decided  that  the 
great  man  should  never  know  her  mistake. 

In  speaking  of  his  works,  he  said :  "  I  am  not  a 
Catholic,  but  no  one  has  spoken  of  the  gospel  with 
more  conviction  and  feeling."  He  talked  admirably 
of  music,  and  was  a  real  connoisseur,  yet  his  own 
compositions  were  not  good.  His  sole  means  of 
subsistence  was  copying  music,  which  he  did  with 
singular  skill.  He  must  have  been  extremely  un 
reasonable  and  immensely  conceited.  One  evening 
when  Madame  de  Genlis  had  the  loan  of  a  grated 
box,  with  private  staircase,  at  the  opera,  she  per 
suaded  Rousseau  to  go  with  them.  He  said  that  he 
carefully  avoided  showing  himself  in  public,  but 
consented.  On  entering  the  box  he  would  not  allow 
the  grate  to  be  put  down,  saying  he  was  sure 
Madame  would  not  like  it.  She  was  too  prettily 
dressed  to  remain  hidden,  and  as  she  insisted,  he 
actually  held  it  up,  saying  he  would  conceal  himself 
behind  her.  In  a  moment  he  put  his  head  forward, 
on  purpose  to  be  seen,  and  again  and  again,  till  sev 
eral  persons  called  out,  "  There  is  Rousseau !  "  and 
the  cry  passed  through  the  house,  but  no  applause. 
He  left  as  soon  as  the  curtain  fell,  in  a  furious  and 
implacable  state,  really  enraged  to  think  he  had  not 


Madame  De  Genlis  281 

produced  a  sensation  ;  but  asserting  that  he  would 
never  see  Madame  again,  as  she  had  taken  him  there 
to  be  shown  off,  as  wild  beasts  are  exhibited  at  a  fair. 
And  she  really  never  met  him  again.  The  Mar 
chioness  of  Pompadour  having  succeeded  in  putting 
Voltaire  and  others  at  her  feet,  tried,  as  she  said,  to 
tame  Rosseau ;  but  a  letter  she  received  from  him 
disgusted  her  from  making  any  more  advances. 
"  He  is  an  owl,"  said  she  one  day  to  Madame  de 
Mirepoix.  "  Yes,"  said  the  Marechale,  "  but  he  is 
Minerva's." 

At  twenty-four  Madame  de  Genlis  was  made  a 
lady  of  honor  in  the  household  of  the  Due  de 
Chartres,  afterwards  Duke  of  Orleans,  known  during 
the  Revolution  as  Egalite,  a  profligate  patron  and 
dangerous  mischief-maker.  The  society  of  the 
Palais  Royal  was  of  course  the  best  in  Paris,  and 
Madame  de  Genlis  was  a  great  favorite  with  all  the 
gentlemen,  and  with  the  ladies  who  were  not 
envious.  But  she  kept  up  her  studies  with  marvel 
ous  enthusiasm,  always  making  extracts  as  she  read. 
She  persuaded  the  Duchess  of  Chartres  to  learn 
geography,  and  even  taught  her  to  spell,  afterwards 
giving  her  lessons  in  history  and  mythology.  She 
had  also  her  secretary  writing  her  notes  and  letters. 
Still,  she  kept  up  her  own  embroidery,  painting,  and 
music.  She  kept  up  her  practice  on  the  harp  and 
instruments,  and  collected  a  fine  cabinet  of  shells, 
minerals,  and  stones,  which  was  afterwards  confis 
cated  and  sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  nation  ;  and  she 


282  Madame  De  Genlis 

continued  to  write  comedies.  Was  there  ever  such 
a  versatile  and  busy  woman  ? 

When  Gliick  went  to  Paris  to  have  his  operas 
performed,  he  completely  bewitched  Madame  de 
Genlis,  who  was  such  an  enthusiastic  musician. 
She  went  to  all  the  rehearsals,  and  every  evening  to 
the  opera,  and  had  Gliick  and  other  famous  per 
formers  come  to  her  soirc'cs  twice  a  week.  She  sang 
for  them,  and  played  his  overtures  on  the  harp  ;  but 
at  last  felt  that  "  music,  Gliick,  and  the  opera  had 
acquired  too  great  a  power  over  her."  So  she  made 
a  resolution  never  again  to  go  to  opera  or  theater, 
and  she  kept  her  vow  faithfully,  great  as  was  the 
sacrifice.  She  makes  this  frank  comment:  "I  sin 
cerely  wish  now  that  religion  had  been  my  motive 
in  this,  but  it  was  only  the  taste  for  study  and  the 
pride  of  being  distinguished." 

She  now  took  up  the  study  of  the  English  lan 
guage,  and  avers  that  she  could  read  the  poets  easily 
in  five  months.  Determined  never  to  lose  any  time, 
she  would  read  in  the  coach  while  traveling,  and 
carried  one  of  her  little  books  of  extracts  in  her 
pocket  to  read  in  odd  moments.  In  traveling,  she 
would  lead  into  conversation  anyone  she  met  who 
could  teach  her  anything,  and  then  write  down  what 
she  had  collected.  Having  heard  that  one  gentle 
man  had  written  in  a  few  years  four  quarto  volumes 
by  employing  the  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  before  his 
wife  came  to  dinner,  she  copied  one  thousand  verses 
from  various  authors  while  waiting  for  the  Duchesse 


Madame  De  Genlis  283 

de  Chartres,  who  was  always  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
late.  It  was  a  curious  and  valuable  collection,  be 
ginning  with  the  oldest  poetry  known  in  France. 
She  went  often  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  and  the 
Cabinet  of  Natural  History,  and  met  there  Buffon, 
who  became  an  intimate  friend. 

In  1774,  Louis  XV  died,  and  the  unfortunate 
Louis  XVI  was  king.  The  next  year  Madame  de 
Genlis  spent  in  traveling.  While  at  Geneva  she 
visited  Voltaire ;  she  had  from  a  child  disliked  him 
for  his  infidel  sentiments,  but  still  desired  his  ad 
miration.  "  It  was  the  custom  for  ladies  to  become 
agitated,  grow  pale,  and  even  to  faint  on  seeing 
Voltaire ;  they  threw  themselves  into  his  arms, 
stammered  and  wept  and  adored." 

This  was  the  etiquette  of  a  presentation  at  Ferney, 
so  that  ordinary  courtesy  seemed  almost  a  slight. 
But  Voltaire,  perceiving  her  perplexity,  kissed  her 
little  hand,  and  the  agony  was  over.  She  writes : 
"  During  the  whole  time  of  dinner  Voltaire  was  far 
from  agreeable.  He  seemed  always  in  a  passion 
with  his  servants,  crying  out  to  them  with  such 
strength  of  lungs  that  I  often  started  involuntarily." 
But  it  was  the  result  of  habit,  and  the  servants  did 
not  mind  it  in  the  least.  He  gave  her  a  drive 
through  the  village  to  see  the  houses  he  had  built 
and  the  benevolent  establishments  founded  by  him. 
Such  gross  flattery  as  he  had  received  had  spoiled 
him.  He  regarded  himself  as  an  oracle,  and  could 
not  brook  contradiction  or  criticism.  Imagine,  then, 


284  Madame  De  Genlis 

his  feelings  when  reduced  to  absolute  subjection  by 
a  page  whom  he  had  vexed.  "  When  Frederick  the 
Great  made  short  excursions  he  often  asked  Voltaire 
to  accompany  him.  On  one  of  these  trips  Voltaire 
was  alone  in  a  post-chaise  following  the  royal  car 
riage.  A  young  page  whom  Voltaire  had  severely 
scolded,  as  he  thought  unjustly,  resolved  to  be 
revenged  ;  accordingly,  when  he  was  sent  in  advance 
to  have  horses  ready,  he  told  all  the  post-masters 
and  postilions  that  the  king  had  an  old  monkey,  of 
which  he  was  so  very  fond  that  he  delighted  in 
dressing  him  up  like  a  person  belonging  to  the 
court,  and  that  he  always  took  this  animal  with  him  ; 
that  the  monkey  cared  for  no  one  but  the  king,  and 
was  extremely  mischievous ;  and  that,  therefore,  if 
he  attempted  to  get  out  of  the  chaise,  they  must  pre 
vent  him.  After  receiving  this  notice  all  the  ser 
vants  of  the  different  post-houses,  whenever  Voltaire 
attempted  to  leave  his  carriage,  opposed  his  exit, 
and  when  he  thrust  out  his  hand  to  open  the  door, 
he  always  received  two  or  three  sharp  blows  with  a 
stick  upon  his  ringers,  followed  by  shouts  of  laughter. 
Voltaire,  who  did  not  understand  a  word  of  German, 
could  not  demand  an  explanation  of  these  singular 
proceedings ;  his  fury  became  extreme,  but  it  only 
served  to  redouble  the  gayety  of  the  post-masters, 
and  a  large  crowd  constantly  assembled,  in  conse 
quence  of  the  page's  report,  to  see  '  the  king's 
monkey  '  and  to  hoot  at  him.  What  completed  the 
anger  of  Voltaire  was  that  the  king  thought  the 


Madame  De  Genlis  285 

trick  so  good  that  he  refused  to  punish  the  inventor ; 
so  the  vengeance  of  the  young  page  was  complete." 

Madame  de  Genlis's  first  book  was  a  collection  of 
her  plays  and  poems,  published  entirely  for  the  ben 
efit  of  a  noble  man,  who  was  most  unjustly  impris 
oned  for  life  if  he  did  not  pay  a  much  larger  sum 
than  he  or  his  friends  could  raise.  One  gentleman, 
unknown  to  her,  but  touched  by  the  generous  effort, 
paid  three  thousand  francs  for  one  copy ;  the  others 
sold  so  well  that  in  six  days  all  were  gone,  with  a 
clear  profit  of  forty-six  thousand  francs.  The  injured 
party  accepted  the  sum,  the  prisoner  was  set  free. 
This  work  was  translated  into  all  the  modern  lan 
guages,  and  the  Empress  of  Russia  had  a  version 
made  with  Russian  text  opposite  the  French. 

And  now  comes  a  very  marked  change.  The 
Due  and  Duchesse  de  Chartres  proposed  that 
Madame  de  Genlis  take  the  entire  charge  of  the 
instruction  of  their  children.  With  her  mania  for 
teaching,  and  the  honor  of  being  offered  a  position 
which  the  wisest  men  of  the  realm  desired  and  cov 
eted  —  which  Fenelon  had  filled  in  another  reign  — 
she  could  not  refuse  the  offer.  M.  de  Genlis,  who 
had  not  accompanied  her  to  Paris,  being  informed 
of  the  Duke's  proposition,  demurred,  and  requested 
his  wife  to  join  him  in  the  country.  She  refused  to 
do  so,  and  they  never  saw  each  other  again.  It  is 
necessary  just  here  to  allude  to  the  shadow  on 
Madame's  character  in  her  supposed  intimacy  with 
the  Duke.  Her  affected  unconsciousness  of  any 


286  Madame  De  Genlis 

scandal  and  her  display  of  prudery  is  in  strange  con 
trast  to  the  convictions  of  the  public.  The  Queen, 
prejudiced  by  the  complaints  of  the  wife,  excluded 
her  from  the  opportunities  of  display  at  court  which 
she  would  have  gloried  in,  and  she  never  could 
obtain  either  a  private  or  public  audience.  After 
accepting  the  position  she  at  once  left  the  Palais 
Royal,  and  retired  to  a  pavilion  built  on  her  own 
plan  at  the  Convent  Belle  Chasse.  She  was  then 
thirty-one.  She  gave  up  dancing  and  rouge,  then 
universally  worn.  With  her  usual  frankness  (on  all 
subjects  but  one)  she  says:  "It  is  singular  that 
though  I  had  always  possessed  religious  sentiments, 
all  the  sacrifices  of  a  devotee  which  I  have  made  have 
have  not  been  inspired  by  religion ;  and  this  is  a 
reflection  which  afflicts  me."  She  gave  up  rouge, 
because  she  had  said  it  would  be  no  sacrifice  to  her, 
and  no  one  seemed  to  believe  her  ;  so  she  made  a 
bet  with  the  Duke  that  she  would  renounce  rouge 
on  the  25th  of  January,  1776,  and  kept  her  word. 

Now  began  her  earnest  life-work  with  the  four 
children  of  the  Duke,  a  daughter  and  three  boys,  the 
eldest  being  Louis  Philippe,  afterward  King  of 
France.  Like  Madame  de  Maintenon,  she  was 
extremely  practical  —  a  model  housewife  —  and  with 
an  eye  to  every  detail,  settling  the  accounts  daily, 
while  everything  was  rendered  useful  as  a  means  of 
education.  The  tapestry  of  the  princess's  room  was 
painted  in  oil,  and  on  a  blue  ground  were  repre 
sented  busts  of  the  seven  kings  of  Rome,  and  the 


Madame  De  Genlis  287 

emperors  and  empresses  down  to  Constantine  the 
Great.  Over  the  doors  were  historical  scenes.  The 
staircases  were  covered  with  maps,  which  could  be 
taken  down  for  lessons.  Even  the  fire-screens, 
hand-screens,  and  tops  of  the  doors  had  lessons  en 
graved  on  them  ;  while  in  letters  of  gold,  over  the 
grate  which  shut  them  out  from  the  world,  were 
these  words  of  Addison,  taken  from  the  Spectator  : 
"  True  happiness  is  of  a  retired  nature,  and  an  enemy 
to  pomp  and  noise."  Her  own  daughters,  two 
beautiful  girls,  were  educated  with  the  Prince's 
family. 

During  the  first  eighteen  months  in  this  sheltered 
retreat  she  published  several  volumes  of  her  Theater 
of  Education,  all  highly  praised  by  the  press  and 
critics  of  that  time.  Madame  d'Epinay  was  espe 
cially  delighted,  and  urged  a  visit.  Here  she  met 
Saint  Lambert  and  Madame  du  Deffand. 

She  was  now  thoroughly  in  her  element,  and  led, 
as  she  says,  a  delicious  life.  She  was  the  first  gov 
erness  or  tutor  of  princes  in  France  who  taught  the 
languages  by  means  of  conversation.  There  was  an 
English  and  Italian  maid,  and  the  little  princesses 
had  an  English  child  for  a  playmate  ;  one  of  the 
valets  was  a  well-educated  German,  another  Italian, 
and  the  princes  were  given  a  good  teacher  of  Eng 
lish.  They  now  removed  to  St.  Leu,  a  charming 
residence,  with  a  fine  park.  A  small  garden  was  laid 
out  for  each  of  her  pupils,  and  they  dug  in  the  dirt 
like  ordinary  children,  and  planted  flowers  and  veg- 


288  Madame  De  Genlis 

etables.  A  botanist  and  chemist  were  attached  to 
the  house,  also  a  teacher  of  drawing.  A  theater  was 
built,  where  the  children  played  pantomimes  and  her 
own  pieces.  She  says :  "  In  the  winter  at  Paris  I  had 
a  turning  machine  put  into  my  ante-chamber,  and  in 
recreation  hours  all  the  children,  as  well  as  myself, 
learned  to  turn.  I  thus  acquired,  with  them,  all  the 
trades  in  which  strength  is  not  required ;  making, 
for  instance,  pocket-books  and  morocco  portfolios, 
which  looked  as  well  as  those  of  English  manufac 
ture."  They  also  made  baskets,  tapes,  ribbons,  gauze, 
pasteboard,  and  plans  in  relief,  artificial  flowers,  grat 
ings  for  libraries  in  brass  wire,  marbled  paper,  gilt 
frames,  all  sorts  of  work  in  hair,  and  even  tried  their 
hands  at  wigs,  and  the  boys  learnt  cabinet-making. 
The  Duke  of  Valois,  with  the  aid  of  his  brother, 
made  a  large  press  and  a  table  with  drawers  for  a 
poor  peasant  woman  of  St.  Leu.  This  was  their 
amusement.  "  Beside  their  palace  of  the  five  orders 
of  architecture,  which  they  could  build  and  take  down 
at  pleasure,  I  made  them  make  various  tools  and  uten 
sils,  the  interior  of  a  laboratory,  with  retorts,  crucibles, 
and  alembics,  and  the  interior  of  a  cabinet  of  natural 
history.  These  were  afterwards  displayed  in  the 
gallery  of  the  Palais  Royal,  and  have  since  been 
placed  in  the  Louvre.  I  was  very  proud  to  see  the 
public  admire  the  playthings  I  had  invented  for  my 
pupils."  The  princes  were  taught  to  swim  and  row, 
and  the  Duke  of  Orleans  bought  an  estate  by  the  sea, 
where  six  months  were  passed  studying  shells,  fishes, 


Madame  De  Genlis  289 

and  sea-plants,  and  learning  in  a  practical  way  about 
ships.  During  one  winter  they  were  taken  to  a  hos 
pital,  to  dress  the  wounds  of  the  poor. 

Then  her  husband  inherited  a  large  estate,  100,- 
ooo  francs  a  year.  He  urged  his  wife  to  leave  her 
pupils  and  return  to  him  ;  but  ambition,  and  sincere 
attachment  to  the  children,  and  self-love  carried  the 
day,  and  she  refused,  which  was  afterwards  a  deep 
grief  to  her.  In  her  words  :  "  In  spite  of  the  argu 
ments  of  M.  de  Genlis,  I  persisted  in  a  resolution 
which  has  cost  me  dear.  If  I  had  fulfilled  my  real 
duty,  which  was  to  rejoin  him,  especially  when  he 
desired  and  entreated  it  so  earnestly,  I  might  easily 
have  induced  him  to  leave  France  ;  we  should  have 
lived  comfortably  in  a  foreign  land,  and  he  would 
not  have  perished  on  a  scaffold  !  This  terrible  reflec 
tion  causes  me  eternal  remorse  ;  since  his  death  it 
never  leaves  me." 

The  assembly  of  the  French  Academy  in  1783 
gave  the  "  Prize  of  Utility  "  to  Madame  d'Epinay's 
"  Conversations  of  Emilia  "  in  preference  to  Madame 
de  Genlis's  "  Adele  and  Theodore,"  a  manual  of  edu 
cation —  a  matter  of  intense  surprise  to  the  latter; 
but  she  consoled  herself  by  attributing  the  decision 
to  her  having  spoken  too  favorably  of  religion  and 
too  lightly  of  philosophy.  "  But  how,"  says  Grimm, 
"  could  the  vengeance  of  philosophy  wound  the  high 
piety  of  our  illustrious  governess  ?  Can  she  who  re 
nounces  the  toilet,  rouge,  and  all  the  pleasures,  all 
the  vanities  of  life,  still  regret  its  frivolous  and  pro- 


290  Madame  De  Genlis 

fane  laurels  ?  "  The  Duchess  of  Grammont  said  with 
her  usual  frankness  that  she  was  overjoyed  at  the 
success  of  Madame  d  Epinay,  because  she  hoped  that 
Madame  de  Genlis  would  die  with  envy,  which  would 
be  an  excellent  thing ;  or  that  she  would  revenge 
herself  by  a  good  satire,  which  would  be  good  again  ; 
and  lastly,  because  she  wished  all  the  world  to  per 
ceive,  what  she  had  for  some  time  suspected,  the 
Academy  to  be  falling  into  dotage. 

At  Belle  Chasse  an  intimacy  was  formed  with 
Madame  Necker.  She  made  the  first  visit,  bringing 
her  daughter,  then  sixteen.  Madame  de  Genlis  never 
liked  Madame  de  Stael.  This  is  her  first  criticism  : 
"  This  young  lady  was  not  pretty,  but  she  was  very 
animated,  and  though  she  spoke  a  deal  too  much,  she 
spoke  cleverly."  Madame  Necker  had  educated  her 
on  a  poor  plan,  permitting  her  to  pass  much  of  her 
time  in  her  salon,  among  the  crowd  of  beaux  e sprits 
who  were  constantly  to  be  found  there,  while  the 
young  miss  discussed  with  them  on  love  and  the 
passions.  The  solitude  of  her  chamber  and  a  few 
good  books  would  have  been  more  to  her  advantage. 
She  learned  to  talk  fast  and  much,  without  any  re 
flection,  and  has  written  in  the  same  manner.  She 
had  read  little,  and  all  her  knowledge  was  superficial. 
She  had  collected  in  her  works  not  the  result  of 
sound  reading,  but  an  infinite  number  of  recollec 
tions  and  incoherent  conversations.  Madame  Necker 
was  a  virtuous,  calm,  reserved  person,  without  any 
fancy.  She  was  studied  in  all  she  did,  and  arranged 


Madame  De  Genlis  291 

beforehand  a  part  for  all  situations.  The  Chevalier 
de  Chastellux  picked  up  a  little  book  while  waiting 
for  Madame  Necker  to  appear  —  as  he  was  too  early 
for  dinner  —  and  found  a  careful  preparation  of  her 
subjects  for  conversation  during  the  dinner.  His 
own  name  caught  his  eye,  and  he  read  :  "  I  must  talk 
to  the  Chevalier  de  Chastellux  about  Public  Happi 
ness  and  Agatha"  —two  of  his  works.  All  were  to 
be  complimented  in  some  skillful  way.  The  dinner 
was  peculiarly  enjoyable  to  the  amused  chevalier,  as 
he  saw  that  Madame  repeated  word  for  word  the  re 
marks  in  her  book.  Madame  de  Genlis,  throughout 
her  memoirs,  gives  the  idea  that  Madame  de  Stael 
was  a  failure,  but  that  if  she  had  been  allowed  to  edu 
cate  her,  it  would  have  been  vastly  different,  saying  : 
"  I  have  often  regretted  sincerely  that  she  had  not 
been  my  daughter  or  my  pupil.  I  should  then  have 
given  her  good  literary  principles,  just  ideas,  and 
unaffected  manners.  With  such  an  education,  joined 
to  her  own  talents  and  generous  mind,  she  would 
have  been  an  accomplished  person,  and  the  first 
female  author  of  our  day." 

A  short  time  before  the  Revolution,  in  1785,  she 
visited  England,  and  was  received,  by  her  own  ac 
count,  with  unusual  honor,  which  she  writes  of  as 
frankly  as  of  her  failings.  She  says  :  "  No  woman  is 
allowed  to  enter  the  House  of  Commons,  but  that 
assembly,  by  a  special  order,  invited  me  to  be  pres 
ent  at  one  of  the  debates.  I  was  not  allowed  to  intro 
duce  any  other  woman."  This  was  one  of  Sheridan's 


292  Madame  De  Genlis 

practical  jokes.  "  Tragedy  was  not  played  in  the 
summer,  yet,  in  honor  to  me,  Hamlet  was  performed 
at  one  of  the  theaters.  An  account  of  all  these  things 
was  inserted  in  the  English  newspapers,  with  the 
most  complimentary  notices  of  myself.  There  ap 
peared  also  in  the  journals  an  infinite  number  of 
verses  in  my  honor.  I  received  many  marks  of  inter 
est  and  esteem  from  the  most  distinguished  persons 
in  England  ;  among  others,  Fox,  Sheridan,  the  Duch 
ess  of  Devonshire,  Mr.  Burke,  and  Miss  Burney.  The 
Prince  of  Wales  invited  me  to  an  entertainment,  and 
the  Queen  invited  me  to  Windsor.  This  was  a  great 
distinction,  for  she  never  received  foreigners  there. 
Lord  Mansfield,  the  celebrated  English  judge,  re 
quested  permission  to  visit  me.  Mr.  Horace  Walpole 
invited  me  to  breakfast  in  his  Gothic  priory." 

"  I  read  a  great  many  English  works,  and  was 
struck  with  the  absurd  contempt  which  the  writers 
of  this  country  affect  for  other  nations.  With  what 
injustice  have  they  criticised  our  literature,  at  the 
same  time  they  were  stealing  from  or  copying  our 
writers  !  How  are  we  represented  on  the  English 
stage  ?  The  French  are  always  treated  there  as 
weak  fops,  and  what  seems  still  more  singular,  as 
cowards.  Let  us  compare  this  with  the  generous 
good  feeling  of  our  authors,  who  have  so  highly 
praised  English  writers  and  the  English  nation." 

Walpole  writes  :  "  I  will  read  no  more  of  Rous 
seau  ;  his  Confessions  disgusted  me  beyond  any  book 
I  ever  opened.  His  Hen  — the  schoolmistress,  Mad- 


Madame  De  Genlis  293 

ame  de  Genlis — is  arrived  in  London.  I  nauseate 
her,  too ;  the  eggs  of  education  that  he  and  she  both 
laid  could  not  be  hatched  till  the  chickens  were  ready 
to  die  of  old  age.  I  revere  genius,  I  have  a  dear 
friendship  for  common  sense  ;  I  have  a  partiality  for 
professed  nonsense  ;  but  I  abhor  extravagance,  that 
is  given  for  the  quintessence  of  sense,  and  affectation 
that  pretends  to  be  philosophy."  But  when  he  met 
her,  the  prejudice  vanished,  and  he  says  :  "  Her  per 
son  is  agreeable,  and  she  seems  to  have  been  pretty. 
Her  conversation  is  natural  and  reasonable,  not  pre- 
cisive  and  affected,  and  searching  to  be  eloquent,  as 
I  had  expected."  But  he  joins  with  other  men  in 
ridiculing  the  office  she  held.  "  The  Due  de  Char- 
tres  has  made  Madame  de  Genlis  governess  of  his 
children.  Why  should  not  Madame  de  Schwellen- 
berg  be  governess  to  our  prince,  and  Bishop  Hurd 
wet  nurse  ?  " 

In  Fanny  Burney's  Diary  (1785)  there  are  many 
allusions  to  Madame  de  Genlis.  She  speaks  of  her  at 
first  as  the  "  sweetest  and  most  accomplished  French 
woman  she  ever  met  with,"  and  is,  for  a  long  time, 
completely  charmed  ;  but  tales,  true  or  false,  were  so 
often  forced  into  her  unwilling  ears,  that  she  says : 
"  Notwithstanding  the  most  ardent  admiration  of  her 
talents,  and  a  zest  yet  greater  for  her  engaging 
society  and  elegantly  lively  and  winning  manners,  I 
yet  dared  no  longer  come  within  the  precincts  of  her 
fascinating  allurements." 

The  biographer  of  Burke,  describing  Madame  de 


294  Madame  De  Genlis 

Genlis's  visit  to  Butler's  Court  (1792)  gives  an  un 
pleasant  anecdote  :  "  Her  great  ambition  was  to  do, 
or  be  thought  to  do,  everything  ;  to  possess  a  universal 
genius  both  in  mind  and  mechanical  powers  beyond 
the  attainments  of  her  own  or  even  the  other  sex. 
A  ring  which  she  wore,  of  very  curious,  indeed,  ex 
quisite  workmanship,  having  attracted  the  notice  of 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  he  inquired  by  what  good  for 
tune  it  had  come  into  her  possession,  and  received 
for  answer  that  it  was  executed  by  herself.  Sir 
Joshua  stared,  but  made  no  reply.  "  I  have  done 
with  her,"  said  he,  the  first  time  he  was  alone  with 
Mr.  Burke  afterwards.  "  To  have  the  assurance  to 
tell  me  such  a  tale  !  Why,  my  dear  sir,  it  is  an  antique  ; 
no  living  artist  in  Europe  can  equal  it." 

She  carried  back  and  introduced  into  France, 
where  it  was  unknown,  the  moss  rose,  as  Pope  intro 
duced  the  weeping  willow  into  England  by  planting 
some  shoots  which  were  sent  him  with  a  basket  of 
figs. 

Soon  after  her  return  the  Revolution  began,  and 
her  life  was  full  of  troubles  —  charges  of  sympathy 
with  the  Liberals,  and  serious  danger  from  associa 
tion  with  the  children  of  the  Duchess  of  Orleans, 
whom  she  was  accused  of  estranging  from  their 
mother. 

To  all  these  attacks  she  pleaded  "  Not  guilty,"  and 
wrote  a  book  to  prove  it,  insisting  that  she  was  at  all 
times  a  Royalist.  From  her  account,  you  judge  her 
to  be  peculiarly  conscientious  and  pure,  resisting  all 


Madame  De  Genlis  295 

admirers,  and  looking  with  severity  upon  damaged 
reputation.  She  was  either  a  hypocrite  or  grossly 
slandered.  Let  us  give  her  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

Her  husband,  who  fearlessly  expressed  himself 
opposed  to  the  execution  of  the  king,  was  punished 
on  the  scaffold.  The  Duke,  also,  was  killed.  After 
Madame  de  Genlis  had  wandered  about  with  Made 
moiselle  d'Orleans  for  a  year  or  two,  the  princess  was 
recalled,  and  her  lonely  governess  went  to  Berlin, 
where  she  gave  lessons  in  literature,  and  designed 
patterns  for  a  print  factory,  and  wrote  novels,  thus 
supporting  herself  very  comfortably.  She  said  she 
knew  fifty-two  trades  by  which  she  could  earn  her 
living.  Talleyrand,  also  an  emigrt  with  Madame  de 
Stael,  writing  to  her  from  Philadelphia,  says  of 
America:  "This  country  is  a  place  where  honest 
men  may  prosper,  though  not,  to  be  sure,  quite  so 
well  as  rogues,  who,  as  may  be  expected,  have  many 
advantages  on  their  side."  She  remained  in  exile 
for  nine  years.  At  Hamburg  she  received  a  visit 
from  Klopstock,  who  talked  at  her  steadily  for  three 
hours,  mostly  of  himself,  and  retired  highly  pleased 
with  her  conversational  ability. 

In  Paris,  when  she  was  allowed  to  return,  in  1801, 
everything  had  strangely,  sadly  altered.  She  said  : 
"  Everything  seemed  new  to  me.  I  felt  like  a 
stranger  who  stops  at  every  step  to  look  around.  I 
could  scarcely  recognize  the  streets,  of  which  all  the 
names  were  changed.  I  found  philosophers  substi 
tuted  for  saints.  I  saw  passing  hackney  coaches, 


296  Madame  De  Genlis 

which  I  recognized  as  the  confiscated  carriages  of 
my  friends ;  and  in  walking,  I  saw  on  the  stalls  books 
which  bore  on  their  bindings  the  coats  of  arms  of 
my  acquaintances,  and  in  shops  their  portraits  ex 
hibited  for  sale.  Three-fourths  of  the  unfortunate 
nobles  whom  these  pictures  represented  had  been 
guillotined,  and  the  rest,  despoiled  of  everything, 
were  wandering  in  foreign  lands.  Even  the  lan 
guage  was  changed.  The  Bureaux  d' Esprit,  ridi 
culed  by  those  who  were  envious  or  unable  to  rival 
them,  such  as  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  were  gone 
forever.  Suppers  were  no  longer  in  fashion,  for  our 
customs  had  changed  as  well  as  the  language.  For 
merly,  the  ladies,  after  dinner  was  over,  rose  and 
left  the  table,  in  order  to  wash  their  mouths  ;  the 
gentlemen  went  into  an  ante-chamber  for  the  same 
purpose.  Now-a-days,  this  part  of  our  toilette  is  per 
formed  at  table  in  many  houses,  where  Frenchmen, 
seated  by  the  side  of  ladies,  wash  their  hands  and 
spit  into  a  bowl.  This  spectacle  would  have  been 
truly  astonishing  to  their  grandfathers  and  grand 
mothers." 

As  she  was  seriously  in  need  of  money,  she 
wrote  the  "  Romance  de  La  Valliere."  This  story 
was  greatly  liked.  Napoleon,  who  was  inordinately 
fond  of  novel-reading,  read  it  through  without  stop 
ping,  and  was  affected  by  it  even  to  tears.  It  went 
through  eighteen  editions,  and  brought  the  age  of 
Louis  XIV  into  fashion.  Sir  James  Mclntosh  said, 
"  It  is  surely  a  most  fascinating  book."  Some 


Madame  De  Genlis  297 

months  after  this  success,  "  Madam  de  Maintenon  " 
appeared.  Fontanes,  in  his  letter  acknowledging 
the  receipt  of  this  book,  closes  by  saying :  "I  doubt, 
even  in  an  age  more  worthy  of  you,  whether  the 
Mesdames  de  Sevigne  and  La  Fayette  would  have 
pardoned  you  for  surpassing  them.  It  is  true  that 
the  La  Rochefoucaulds,  the  La  Fontaines,  and  the 
La  Bruyeres  would  have  been  at  your  feet,  but  where 
are  they  at  this  day  ?  " 

Then  followed  novels  and  plays  thick  as  the 
leaves  of  Vallambrosa.  The  Emperor  now  requested 
from  Madame  de  Genlis  a  letter  once  a  fortnight  on 
"  politics,  finance,  literature,  and  morals,"  as  well  as 
on  any  other  subjects  that  might  occur  to  her.  He 
allotted  to  her  handsome  apartments  in  the  Arsenal, 
and  a  pension  of  six  thousand  francs.  After  telling 
her  readers  how  highly  these  letters  were  valued  by 
the  first  consul,  she  adds,  "  It  was  not  my  fault  if  he 
did  not  become  religious." 

The  Queen  of  Naples  desired  her  as  governess 
for  her  family.  She  did  not  accept  the  position,  but 
was  granted  a  pension  of  three  thousand  francs  by 
the  Queen,  who  admired  her  greatly.  In  considera 
tion  of  this  compliment,  Madame  de  Genlis  prepared 
a  written  course  of  history  and  literature,  as  a  guide 
for  the  Queen's  children. 

Her  drawing-room  was  crowded  every  evening 
during  the  winter  of  1812.  Lady  Morgan  was  often 
seen  there,  fascinating  all  with  her  sparkling  manner, 
warmth  of  heart,  and  good  nature  —  not  beautiful, 


298  Madame  De  Genlis 

but  always  attractive.  Madame  Recamier  was  a  con 
stant  visitor.  She  is  usually  spoken  of  as  a  beautiful 
lay  figure,  or  a  soulless  coquette,  so  that  it  is  pleas 
ant  to  hear  a  better  opinion  from  one  who  knew  her 
well,  and  who  was  peculiarly  quick  to  notice  defects. 
She  says  :  "  The  more  I  conversed  with  her,  the 
more  talent  and  interest  I  found  in  her  conversation. 
Had  she  not  been  so  handsome  and  so  celebrated  for 
her  person,  she  would  be  ranked  amongst  the  most 
accomplished  women  of  society.  The  world  never 
grants  but  one  species  of  renown,  and  only  lavishes 
its  praise  for  one  darling  quality.  If  Madame 
Recamier  had  not  been  so  beautiful,  every  one  would 
have  praised  the  accuracy  and  discrimination  of  her 
mind  ;  no  one  listens  zvitk  more  attention  (an  important 
trait  where  you  wish  to  charm),  for  she  feels  and 
comprehends  everything.  The  delicacy  of  her  sen 
timents  gives  an  inexpressible  charm  to  that  of  her 
mind.  Her  opinions  on  every  subject  indirectly 
connected  with  morals  are  never  calculated  before 
hand,  and  are  extremely  accurate.  They  are  the 
free,  happy  emanations  of  a  pure  and  feeling  heart. 
Notwithstanding  all  the  troubles  and  misfortunes 
with  which  her  life  has  been  checkered,  there  is  so 
much  sweetness  in  her  temper,  so  much  calmness  in 
her  heart  and  conscience,  that  she  has  preserved 
nearly  all  the  fairness  of  her  complexion,  and  all  the 
charming  appearance  of  her  early  youth.  The  round 
of  pleasure  in  which  she  has  lived  has  rendered  her 
completely  unable  to  apply  herself  to  serious  occu- 


Madame  De  Genlis  299 

pations.  Disgusted  with  frivolous  amusements  of 
every  kind,  tired  of  trifling,  she  now  only  gives  her 
self  up  to  them  through  habits  of  idleness  ;  but  she 
is  a  proof  that  it  is  the  most  disagreeable  situation 
anyone  can  be  placed  in  who  possesses  judgment  and 
talents.  In  her  most  intimate  chats  she  rarely  speaks 
of  herself,  for  the  interests  of  her  life  have  never 
been  but  relative.  She  has  long  possessed  friends, 
who  are  deservedly  devoted  to  her,  in  elevated  sta 
tions,  but  has  never  profited  herself  by  her  influence 
with  them,  although  always  suggesting  beneficent 
plans  for  others.  There  does  not  exist  a  woman  who- 
has  rendered  more  services  than  she  without  cabal 
or  intrigue,  and  there  is  not  one  who,  after  the  loss 
of  a  great  fortune,  has  possessed  more  dignity  under 
reverses." 

The  remaining  years  of  this  long  and  busy  life 
were  spent  in  publishing  a  number  of  volumes  —  so 
many  that  it  would  be  fatiguing  even  to  enumerate 
the  titles  —  in  entertaining  her  friends,  and  in 
attacking  the  new  ideas  of  the  philosophers.  At  one 
time,  in  the  winter  of  1820,  she  was  writing  five 
books  at  the  same  time. 

It  is  not  strange  that  she  was  always  looking 
back  regretfully  to  the  good  old  times,  when  cul 
tivated  women  queened  it  in  their  salons,  and  politics 
were  kept  out  of  general  conversation.  She  says: 

"  Our  profound  thinkers,  our  great  statesmen,  are 
continually  talking  with  contempt  of  the  '  frivolity  " 
of  the  seventeenth  and  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 


300  Madame  De  Genlis 

century.  It  is  said  again  and  again  that  society  is 
no  longer  '  frivolous.'  Alas !  it  is  true,  and  it  is  a 
great  misfortune,  in  my  opinion.  There  is  a  great 
pleasure  in  being  able  to  argue  well  in  a  serious  con 
versation,  or  to  talk  trifles  gracefully  in  a  select 
private  party ;  and  the  French,  in  former  times, 
seemed  to  have  the  exclusive  privilege  of  wielding 
this  double  power  with  success.  Previous  to  this 
horrid  period,  where  impiety,  licentiousness,  and 
pride  run  mad  combined  to  give  birth  to  all  the 
scenes  we  have  witnessed,  the  frivolity  of  the  French 
was  not  a  national  defect.  It  was,  on  the  contrary, 
the  preserver  against  pedantry,  affectation,  and  a 
thousand  ridiculous  and  dangerous  pretensions.  It 
was  found  where  it  ought  to  be  to  form  the  charm 
of  society,  in  the  conversations  of  men  of  the  world, 
in  letters,  and  the  gayest  amusements.  It  excluded 
from  our  parties  a  positive  and  dogmatic  spirit, 
metaphysical  discussions,  politics,  and  dissertations ; 
and  was,  in  its  turn,  excluded  from  important  affairs 
and  serious  works.  Men  never  thought  more  pro 
foundly  or  wrote  more  elegantly  and  correctly  than 
when  society  was  adorned  by  the  most  amiable 
frivolity,  which  was  nothing  else  but  a  relaxation  of 
mind,  and  a  gaiety  full  of  wit,  feeling,  and  grace. 
Were  we  to  expunge  from  the  letters  of  Madame  de 
Sevigne  everything  that  is  frivolous,  we  should  take 
away  their  principal  charm. 

"  Such  was  frivolity  amongst  us  in  the  times  of 


Madame  De  Genlis  301 

old.     The  following  incident  will  show  what  modern 
politeness  is : 

"Towards  the  end  of  June,  1821,  I  dined  with 
thirteen  persons,  amongst  whom  were  four  peers, 
four  marshals  of  France,  and  three  generals  ;  among 
the  peers  there  were  two  dukes.  Before  dinner 
they  were  in  their  own  way  very  polite  to  me,  and  I 
had  no  trouble  in  taking  my  share  of  the  conversa 
tion  at  dinner,  for  the  peers  on  either  side  spoke  of 
nothing  but  politics,  and  addressed  their  conversa 
tion  to  gentlemen  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  We 
returned  to  the  drawing-room  after  dinner,  and  at 
the  moment  I  was  sitting  down  I  saw  with  surprise 
that  all  the  dukes  and  peers  had  escaped  from  me ; 
each  of  them  took  hold  of  an  armchair,  dragged  it 
after  him,  approached  his  neighbor,  and  thus  formed 
a  circle  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  I  was  thus 
left  quite  alone,  with  a  semicircle  of  backs  turned 
towards  me.  To  be  sure,  I  saw  the  faces  of  the 
other  half  of  the  party.  I  thought  at  first  they  had' 
seated  themselves  so  to  play  at  those  little  games 
that  require  such  an  arrangement,  but  it  was  no 
such  thing ;  it  was  solely  for  the  purpose  of  discuss 
ing  the  most  difficult  questions  of  state  policy. 
Everyone  became  a  noisy  orator,  bawled  out  his 
opinions,  interrupted  his  neighbor,  quarreled  and 
talked  till  he  got  hoarse ;  they  must  all  have  been  in 
a  precious  state  of  perspiration.  It  was  a  correct 
picture  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  —  in  fact,  it  was 
a  great  deal  worse,  for  there  was  no  president.  I 


302  Madame  De  Genlis 

had  a  great  mind  to  play  the  part  of  one,  and  to  call 
them  to  order,  but  I  had  no  bell,  and  my  feeble  voice 
could  not  have  been  heard.  This  clamor  and  con 
fusion  lasted  for  more  than  an  hour  and  a  half,  when 
I  left  the  drawing-room,  delighted  with  having 
received  the  first  lesson  of  the  new  customs  of 
society,  and  the  new  code  of  French  gallantry  —  of 
that  politeness  which  has  rendered  us  so  celebrated 
throughout  Europe.  I  confess  that  down  to  this 
moment  I  had  very  inadequate  notions  of  all  these 
things. 

"  I  now  met  with  women  who  naturally  hated  all 
kinds  of  interesting  or  witty  conversation,  because 
they  could  take  no  share  in  it ;  tittle  tattle,  or 
scandal,  formed  all  their  talk  ;  they  had  produced  a 
coolness  among  all  their  husbands'  friends  by  their 
insipidity,  their  dryness,  and  their  aptness  to  take 
offense  —  the  ordinary  defect  of  women  who  want 
talent  and  education.  The  most  of  these  persons, 
ridiculously  vain,  reckoned  their  reciprocal  visits, 
and  bid  (as  it  were )  for  a  courtesy  ;  they  were  always 
on  the  qni  i'ii>e  !  always  uneasy  with  regard  to  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  treated,  without  know 
ing  positively  how  they  ought  to  be  treated  ;  so  that 
they  were  generally  irritating  themselves  by  imag 
inary  failures  in  politeness  and  ideal  impertinences !  " 

Youth  and  charm  lingered  with  this  inscrutable 
little  woman  until  the  very  last.  At  eighty  she  had 
perfect  health,  required  no  glasses — hearing  as 
good  as  at  twenty,  memory  and  mental  faculties 


Madame  De  Genlis  303 

unimpaired.  The  novel  which  is  now  most  read  of 
all  her  works  is  "  Mademoiselle  de  Clermont."  "  Bel- 
isarius  "  was  written  simply  to  outdo  Marmontel,  who 
had  published  a  book  on  the  same  subject.  She 
revived  in  France  the  "  Historical  Novel,"  much  in 
the  style  of  Madame  Miihlbach.  Like  Ruskin,  who 
has  planned  more  than  seventy  works  which  he 
wants  to  give  the  world  before  he  leaves  it,  she 
closes  her  "  Memoirs  "  with  a  hint  of  a  dozen  more 
books  which  she  hopes  to  publish.  She  had  many 
chimerical  plans,  such  as  the  attempt  to  purify  his 
tory  and  philosophy  by  omitting  everything  irrev 
erent,  skeptical,  or  untrue  ;  just  as  some  in  our  day 
indulge  the  delusion  that  the  drama  would  still  be 
attractive  if  raised  to  the  moral  standard  of  the 
church.  In  short,  she  embraced  the  entire  Cosmos  in 
her  schemes  of  reform,  and  wondered  that  all  think 
ers  did  not  turn  round  and  follow  meekly  in  her 
train.  In  the  long  sketch  of  her  in  the  "  Universal 
Biography  of  France,"  they  say :  "  The  world  was 
by  her  divided  into  two  parts  —  her  friends  and  her 
enemies,  or  rather,  those  who  admired  her  and  those 
who  criticised."  Her  "  Memoirs  "  were  an  apology,  a 
compilation,  selections  from  her  works,  a  collection 
of  anecdotes  —  in  a  word,  they  are  anything  but 
memoirs.  Call  them  what  you  will,  they  are  full  of 
interest  to  this  day. 

A  more  conceited  woman  never  lived,  and  her 
frankness  in  quoting  her  various  compliments,  poet 
ical  tributes,  and  constant  conquests  is  weak  but 


304  Madame  De  Genlis 

amusing.  She  felt  herself  capable  of  gracing  any 
position,  of  instructing  and  gaiding  any  who  came 
in  her  path  ;  no  subject  so  abstruse  or  profound  that 
she  could  not  master  it ;  no  one  escaped  her  criti 
cism,  yet  she  always  spoke  of  herself  as  thoroughly 
impartial,  never  malicious,  abused  by  critics,  robbed 
by  plagiarists.  As  the  instructor  of  Louis  Philippe 
she  deserves  great  honor.  You  remember  that  dur 
ing  his  exile  he  supported  himself  by  teaching,  ris 
ing  at  half-past  four  and  walking  miles  to  teach  the 
higher  mathematics  in  a  Swiss  college.  When  a 
civic  crown  was  presented  to  him  for  saving  a  man 
from  drowning,  he  wrote  at  once  to  his  old  teacher : 
"  Without  you,  what  should  I  have  been  ?  " 

Her  works  were  wonderfully  popular  in  their 
day.  By  the  way,  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  W.  S.  Gil 
bert,  author  of  the  irresistible  "  Bab  Ballads,"  and 
"  Pygmalion  and  Galatea,"  to  say  nothing  of  "  Pina 
fore,"  borrowed  wholesale  from  Madame  de  Genlis's 
"  Tale  of  an  Old  Castle  "  for  his  "  Palace  of  Truth," 
which  is  so  much  admired.  It  is  little  more  than  a 
paraphrase  of  her  story. 

She  had  a  slight,  graceful  figure,  was  rather yV///V, 
with  curling  brown  hair  and  "  soft,  spiritual  eyes." 
But  her  nose  was  her  pride.  Its  praise  had  been  sung 
by  several  of  her  admirers.  In  her  seventieth  year 
she  stumbled  over  a  trunk,  broke  two  teeth,  scratched 
her  face  in  three  places,  and  broke  that  beautiful 
nose  —  that  nose  so  delicate,  so  perfect  in  outline. 
Her  wailings  over  this  calamity  and  her  rhapsodic 


Madame  De  Genlis  305 

reminiscence  of  her  nose  as  it  used  to  be,  are  serio 
comic  in  the  extreme. 

Her  last  days  were  rather  sad  ;  her  means  were 
reduced,  old  friends  gone,  the  glory  of  her  nose 
among  the  things  that  were ;  yet  Mrs.  Opie,  who 
called  upon  her  in  her  last  year,  speaks  of  her  as  a 
really  pretty  and  lively  little  old  woman.  She  was 
found  dead  December,  1830  —  the  last  morning  of 
the  year  —  aged  eighty-four. 

Men  have  reviewed  her  life  and  writings  with 
great  severity.  In  the  "  Quarterly  "  for  1826  we  find 
this  sentence  :  "  If  we  may  be  allowed  thus  to  express 
ourselves,  we  should  say  Madame  de  Genlis  has  a 
very  large  portion  of  a  very  small  mind,  and  that 
portion  is  particularly  active.  Her  intellectual  arse 
nal  is  boundlessly  stored  with  sparrow-shot."  In  her 
eighty-third  year  she  expressed  the  opinion  that  the 
value  set  upon  the  opinions  of  old  women  is  the  sur 
est,  if  not  the  only,  test  of  the  moral,  religious,  and 
intellectual  state  of  a  country  ;  and  in  the  "  Suppers 
of  the  Marechale  de  Luxembourg,"  gives  a  picture 
of  society  under  this  government !  This,  of  course, 
made  her  ridiculous,  and  reviewers  were  merciless. 
Yet  Miss  Kavanaugh  says  in  her  sketch  :  "  No  woman 
who  has  written  so  much,  has  written  so  wrell."  St. 
Beuve  says  of  her :  "  She  was  above  everything  an 
author,  and  would  certainly  have  invented  writing, 
if  it  had  not  appeared  before  her  time.  Her  acquire 
ments  made  her  a  living  encyclopedia,  which  prided 
itself  on  being  the  rival  antagonist  of  all  other  ency- 


306  Madame  De  Genlis 

clopedias.  But  she  was  the  most  gracious  and  gal 
lant  of  pedagogues.  Very  beautiful,  very  fascinat 
ing  when  she  chose,  knowing  the  strength  and  the 
weak  points  of  each  one,  and  knowing  how  to  cast 
her  spell  of  enchantment  upon  you,  she  became  cold 
and  indifferent  when  you  did  not  respond  to  her  en 
thusiasm  ;  of  an  infinite  grace  when  admired,  she 
was  hard  and  severe  when  one  dared  to  disagree  or 
failed  to  please." 

To  judge  her  impartially  she  must  not  be  taken 
from  the  circle  where  she  lived.  She  wrote  for  the 
luxurious  liabituts  of  palaces  and  salons.  Let  me 
quote  a  few  of  her  good  thoughts  : 

"  Constant  and  varied  occupation  is  much  more 
powerful  than  amusements  in  dispelling  sorrow  and 
anxiety." 

"  There  are  but  two  suffrages  worthy  of  desire  by 
a  feeling  and  upright  heart ;  one's  own  conscience, 
and  the  voice  of  friendship." 

"  Virtue  may  be  acquired,  but  goodness  is  a  gift 
of  nature." 

"  A  man  declares  his  love,  a  woman  confesses 
hers." 

"  Evil-speaking  always  spoils  the  manners  of  a 
woman." 

"With  the  exception  of  the  loss  by  death  of  those 
we  love,  almost  all  our  misfortunes  and  sorrows  are 
in  part  our  own  fault." 

"Let  musical  teachers  be  given  to  those  young 
ladies  only  who  have  a  musical  voice  and  ear,  and  a 


Madame  De  Genlis  307 

feeling  for  music  ;  let  drawing  be  taught  to  those 
only  who  have  a  taste  for  the  art,  and  the  number  of 
amateurs  would  be  diminished ;  and  we  should  no 
longer  meet  with  that  crowd  of  women  with  trifling 
acquirements  and  high  pretensions,  which  throws  so 
much  ennui  over  the  surface  of  society." 

"  Criticism  at  the  present  day  is  nothing  but  a  con 
tinual  system  of  sneering  and  ridicule,  more  or  less 
witty  and  more  or  less  worn  out ;  such  a  continual 
shower  of  irony  becomes  monotonous." 

"  Sleep,  which  flies  from  luxury  and  indolence,  is 
the  sure  reward  of  real  fatigue." 

"  Men  of  letters  have  an  actually  existing  superi 
ority  over  female  authors  that  is  perfectly  evident 
and  indisputable.  All  the  works  of  women  put  into 
one  scale  will  not  weigh  some  fine  pages  of  Bossuet 
or  Pascal,  some  scenes  of  Corneille,  Racine,  or  Mo- 
liere  ;  but  it  must  not  be  concluded  from  this  that 
the  mental  constitution  of  women  is  inferior  to  that 
of  men.  Genius  is  composed  of  all  the  qualities  they 
are  admitted  to  possess,  and  which  they  may  be  en 
dowed  with  in  the  highest  degree  —  fancy,  sensibil 
ity,  and  elevation  of  soul.  The  want  of  study  and 
education  having  at  all  times  kept  women  apart  from 
the  career  of  literature,  they  have  shown  their  great 
ness  of  soul,  not  by  describing  historical  facts  in  their 
writings,  or  by  bringing  forth  ingenious  fictions  of 
fancy  ;  but  by  real  actions  they  have  done  better 
than  describe,  and  have  often  by  their  conduct  fur 
nished  the  models  of  sublime  heroism.  No  woman 


308  Madame  De  Genlis 

in  her  writing  has  described  the  lofty  soul  of  Corne 
lia  ;  what  matters  it,  since  Cornelia  is  not  an  imag 
inary  being  ?  " 

French  women  of  that  early  period,  always  excep 
ting  Madame  de  Sevigne,  seem  to  be  either  fanatics 
or  flirts.  We  fear  our  eccentric  friend  is  no  excep 
tion  ;  yet  it  is  difficult  to  read  her  own  story  and  not 
believe  in  her  innocence.  Madame  always  ended 
with  a  moral.  In  imitation,  we  regret  that  her  char 
acter  and  talents  were  ruined  by  excessive  vanity. 
This  fault  led  her  into  a  dangerous  position,  and 
kept  her  there ;  it  shadowed  every  virtue,  every  ac 
complishment,  and  makes  us  not  unwilling  to  say 
good-bye  to  Countess  de  Genlis,  Jack-of-all-trades, 
Paragon  of  Perfection,  "  Gouvcrneur  du  Rot." 


ARE  WOMEN  WITTY? 


ANTITHESES    IN    CRITICISM. 

"Women  have  more  wit  than  humor." — Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes. 

"Women  have  more  humor  than  wit.'' — John  Boyle  O'Reilly. 

"  Women  are  not  witty,  I  am  sorry." — John  Boyle  O'Reilly. 

"  Humor  is  the  rarest  of  qualities  in  women." —  Richard  Grant 
White. 

It  is  best  not  to  indulge  in  too  positive  state 
ments  when  wishing  to  convince.  So  I  ask  the 
question,  "Are  women  witty?"  hoping  that  my 
readers  will  give  a  hearty  verdict  in  the  affirmative. 
Even  this  gentle  interrogative  has  roused  many  a 
sneering  reply,  much  adverse  criticism,  and  one 
superior  cynic  inquires  with  a  patronizing  air  if 
Miss  Sanborn  has  never  heard  of  Hood  and  Hook, 
Curran,  Sheridan,  etc.,  and  what  we  women  have  to 
compare  with  their  brilliancy,  as  if  a  modest  plea  for 
a  recognition  of  woman's  wit  and  humor  argued 
ignorance  of  those  immortals  or  any  desire  to  belittle 
their  fame. 

From  time  immemorial,  men  have  declared  with 
owl-like  solemnity  and  about  as  much  wisdom,  that 
women  have  no  sense  of  humor,  no  capacity  for  wit, 
no  woman's  name  in  any  collection  of  humorous 


310  Are  Women  Witty? 

poetry,  epigrams,  or  repartees,  until  the  last  two 
years.  In  Mason's  "  Masterpieces  of  Humor  "  lately 
published  by  Putnam,  women  are  represented  for 
the  first  time.  And  special  tributes  are  now  given 
occasionally,  as  in  a  recent  eclectic  Sarah  Orne 
Jewett  is  said  to  "  possess  genuine  humor,  the 
humor  of  Lamb  and  of  Hood  ;  the  humor  which  is 
likely  to  bring  a  tear  to  the  eye  as  well  as  a  smile  to 
the  lips." 

I  wish  to  own  that  Pope  recognized  the  quality 
in  woman  and  acknowledged  it  several  times,  as : 

"  Her  tongue  bewitched  as  oddly  as  her  eyes, 
Less  wit  than  mimic,  more  a  wit  than  wise  !  " 

But  search  magazines  from  the  earliest  to  the 
latest.  You  find  at  regular  intervals  heavy  articles 
on  wit  and  humor,  with  hackneyed  definitions  of 
these  undefinable  and  elusive  qualities,  illustrations 
oft  quoted,  but  no  woman's  name.  And  more  than 
half  of  the  wit  of  the  past  consists  of  hits  at  women, 
and  satire  on  their  faults  and  foibles. 

"  Why,"  says  Stinson  Jarvis,  or  Jarvis  Stinson, 
in  an  open  letter  to  the  Century,  "  Why,  in  literature 
are  there  no  female  humorists  ? " 

Why,  in  the  name  of  common  sense  and  common 
perception,  does  he  fail  to  see  that  both  humorous 
and  witty  women  abound  in  America  ? 

He  answers  his  own  question.  "Is  it  not  because 
our  sister  has  been  so  far  compelled  by  nature  to 
make  idols  and  because  she  is  too  much  in  earnest 
over  her  devotion  to  lapse  into  what  would  seem  to 


Are  Women  Witty?  311 

be  frivolity  ?  If,  in  spite  of  all  her  effort,  some 
other  power  throws  her  idols  down,  or,  if  they  throw 
themselves  down,  she  may  become  bitter  or  sad  or 
savage  or  religious,  but  never  humorous  !  " 

I  will  give  a  few  words  written  to  me  last  week 
from  an  editor  of  one  of  the  most  important  New 
York  dailies  to  show  the  general  impression  of  cul 
tivated  men : 

"  I  used  to  think  that  there  were  no  humorists  of 
the  female  sex,  but  one  day  in  Puck,  Madeline 
Bridges,  in  the  course  of  a  colloquy  between  desert 
nomads,  made  one  of  them  ask  the  other  to  '  come 
in  out  of  the  simoon,'  as  we  in  American  slang  ask 
people  'to  come  in  out  of  the  wet.'  Whereupon  I 
concluded  that  a  sense  of  humor  did  exist  in  the 
feminine  mind."  How  absurdly  ignorant,  conceited, 
and  patronizing. 

John  Kendrick  Bangs  in  a  recent  lecture  indulges 
in  the  old  slur  about  woman's  utter  lack  of  wit. 

You  naturally  remember  him  as  the  author  of 
"The  Idiot  Club!" 

But  women  are  waking  up  to  reciprocal  courte 
sies,  and  enjoy  satirizing  some  of  the  many  assail 
able  characteristics  of  men  as  : 

Geo.  Eliot. —  "  I'm  not  denyin'  the  women  are 
foolish ;  God  Almighty  made  'em  to  match  the 
men." 

Mrs.  Phelps  Ward. —  "  As  a  rule,  a  man  can't  cul 
tivate  his  mustache  and  his  talents  impartially." 

Mrs.  Phelps  Ward. —  "  No  men  are  so  fussy  about 


312  Are  Women  Witty? 

what  they  eat  as  those  who  think  their  brains  the 
biggest  part  of  them." 

Rose  Terry  Cooke. —  "  Marryin'  a  man  ain't  like 
settin'  alongside  of  him  nights  and  hearin'  him  talk 
pretty ;  that's  the  fust  prayer.  There's  lots  an'  lots 
o'  meetin'  after  that !  " 

A  lady  once  told  me  she  could  always  know 
when  she  had  taken  too  much  wine  at  dinner — her 
husband's  jokes  began  to  seem  funny  ! 

From  Ouida. —  "  A  man  is  never  so  honest  as  when 
he  speaks  well  of  himself." 

Lucretia  Mott's  humorous  comment  when  she 
entered  a  room  where  her  husband  and  his  brother 
Richard  were  sitting,  both  of  them  remarkable  for 
their  taciturnity  and  reticence :  u  I  thought  you 
must  both  be  here  —  it  was  so  still !  " 

A  wealthy  parvenu  lately  gave  the  church  which 
he  attends  two  tablets  of  stone,  with  the  Ten  Com 
mandments  engraved  upon  them ;  whereupon  a 
witty  lady  member  of  the  church  remarked  that  his 
reason  for  giving  away  the  Commandments  was  that 
he  couldn't  keep  them. 

Recall  the  usual  themes  for  a  man's  jokes,  in  print 
or  in  the  home. 

The  poor  mother-in-law !  Is  she  to  be  forever 
traduced  and  roared  over  in  barroom,  theater,  the 
club,  and  at  stag  dinners  ?  From  the  time  of  Adam, 
who  is  supposed  to  have  congratulated  himself  that 
he  had  none,  that  feeble  joke  has  been  tottering 
down  the  ages.  Entire  plays  are  based  on  it,  and 


Are  Women  Witty?  313 

cultivated  audiences  crowd  our  best  theaters  to  see  a 
popular  company,  skilled  in  interpreting  Shakes 
peare,  rushing  wildly  round  the  stage,  several  stars 
in  assumed  hysterics  or  convulsions ;  while  the 
mother-in-law,  an  unreasonable  tyrant  and  virago, 
chases  long-suffering  sons-in-law  around  the  room, 
striking  them  over  the  head  with  an  umbrella,  or 
slapping  their  faces  like  a  modern  fish-wife.  This 
is  uproariously  applauded,  and  the  morning  papers 
report  "  A  Brilliant  Hit."  "  Instantaneous  Success." 
"  Peals  of  Laughter."  The  earliest  attempts  at 
dramatic  representation  were  not  more  exaggerated 
and  absurd.  In  fact,  the  scolding  of  Noah's  wife  in 
the  Chester  Miracle  Play  is  more  truly  humorous. 

As  this  much  abused  and  vilified  woman  too 
often  supports  the  son-in-law,  or  acts  as  nurse,  cook, 
and  general  servant  with  willing  affection  and  devo 
tion  for  his  entire  family,  this  seems  more  cruel  than 
comical.  A  man  seldom  gives  this  relative  any 
credit  for  humor.  Let  us  honor  the  one  who  ac 
knowledged  the  wit  of  his  mother-in-law  !  He  says : 
"  A  few  weeks  after  my  son  had  swallowed  a  penny, 
she  wrote  to  inquire,  '  Has  Ernest  got  over  his 
financial  difficulties  yet  ?  ' ' 

How  tired  we  are  of  the  mouldy  jokes  on  the 
new  bonnet,  seal-skin  sack,  mortality  caused  by 
young  wife's  attempts  at  cooking,  shoes  several 
sizes  too  small,  sleeves  or  hats  as  many  sizes  too 
large,  the  big  feet  of  Chicago  girls,  the  gum-chew- 


314  Are  Women  Witty? 

ing  at  Vassar,  and  the  frigid  bean-devourer  of  Bos 
ton,  also  the  mythical  ice-cream  fiend. 

Prohibit  vulgarity,  profanity,  flings  at  our  sex, 
and  the  loudly  vaunted  wit  of  the  past  shrinks  sur 
prisingly. 

With  men  the  most  irresistible  humor  often  lies 
on  the  dangerous  border-line  between  humor  and 
vulgarity,  while  the  humor  of  cultivated  women, 
delicate  and  subtle,  effervescent  and  evanescent,  is 
more  difficult  to  catch  and  preserve,  like  the  sea 
weed  in  Emerson's  "  Each  and  All." 

One  eminent  authority  allows  that  there  have 
been  two  really  witty  women  in  England :  Lady 
Montagu  and  Catherine  Fanshawe.  We  all  know 
the  former  as  letter-writer,  converser,  beauty,  phil 
anthropist,  gossip,  traveler,  and  wit,  and  perhaps  all 
will  recall  the  same  sarcastic  sentence :  "  There  is 
but  one  reason  I  am  glad  I  am  a  woman  :  I  shall 
never  have  to  marry  one." 

Miss  Fanshawe  was  not  only  witty,  but  was 
known  as  an  artist,  a  poet,  and  a  thoroughly  delight 
ful  woman.  "  Never  running  the  risk  of  giving  a 
moment's  pain  to  anyone,"  a  difficult  attainment  for 
ordinary  mortals ;  still  more  so  for  a  wit.  Too 
many  acting  on  the  principle,  "  If  you  cannot  speak 
evil  "  of  a  person  —  do  not  speak  of  him  ! 

The  enigma  on  the  letter  H  ascribed  to  Byron 
and  printed  in  various  editions  of  his  poems,  was 
written  by  this  versatile  woman.  She  composed 
capital  charades  in  verse,  a  fashionable  pastime  then. 


Are  Women  Witty?  315 

When  the  Regents'  Park  was  first  laid  out  she 
parodied  the  two  well-known  lines  from  Pope's 
"  Elegy  on  an  Unfortunate  Lady :  " 

"  Here  shall  the  spring  its  earliest  sweets  bestow, 
Here  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow." 

in   this    fashion,    only   altering   one   word    in   first 
line,  one  letter  in  second  : 

"  Here  shall  the  spring  its  earliest  coughs  bestow, 
Here  the  first  noses  of  the  year  shall  blow." 

English  women  do  not  equal  the  French  as  wits, 
but  we  can  instance  Lady  Blessington,  Jane  Austen, 
Fanny  Burney,  Jane  Taylor,  Hannah  More,  Mary 
Ferrier,  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  Mrs.  Carlyle, 
Madame  Mohl,  Lady  Ashburton,  Mrs.  Grote, 
George  Eliot,  and  many  more. 

We  even  have  a  veritable  witticism  from  the 
Queen.  Hearing  of  the  grace  and  agility  of  a  pretty 
Scotch  lassie  who  had  danced  a  sword  dance  most 
cleverly  for  some  of  her  officers  she  commanded  the 
same  diversion  for  herself  and  was  equally  enter 
tained.  At  the  close  of  the  brilliant  performance 
the  girl  advanced  and  courtesied  profoundly. 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  asked  her  majesty. 

"Give  me  the  head  of  Gladstone,"  said  the  mod 
ern  Herodias. 

"  I  would  gladly  do  that,  my  dear,  but  he  lost  it 
some  years  since." 

Princess  Maud  of  Wales,  like  her  father,  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  dearly  loves  a  joke,  and  is  inclined 


316  Are  Women  Witty? 

to  be  witty  and  facetious  at  all  times.  Some  of  the 
best  current  puns  in  London  are  attributed  to  the 
Princess  Maud,  just  as  fugitive  jokes  are  yet  credited 
to  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Miss  Havergal,  who  is  known  by  her  noble  life 
work  and  volumes  of  devotional  verses,  was  not 
devoid  of  genuine  humor.  When  reading  her 
interesting  memoirs  I  copied  a  rhyme  about  Bores, 
which  will  appeal  to  all. 

"  People  of  every  age  and  class, 
Under  review  appeared  to  pass, 
Specimens,  too,  in  greatest  variety, 
Of  every  sort  of  bores  in  society, 
Boorish  bores  and  bores  polite, 
People  who  stay  too  late  at  night, 
People  who  make  long  morning  calls, 
People  who  think  of  nothing  but  balls, 
People  who  never  a  move  will  make, 
People  who  never  a  hint  will  take, 
Strong-minded  bores  and  weak-minded,  too, 
Masculine,  feminine,  not  a  few, 
People  who  borrow  books  to  lose. 
People  who  will  not  wipe  their  shoes, 
People  who  keep  your  mind  on  the  rack, 
Lest  some  pussy  escape  from  the  sack, 
Over-stupid  and  over-clever, 
People  who  seem  to  talk  forever, 
People  who  mutter  and  people  who  drawl, 
People  who  will  not  talk  at  all. 
Old  pianos  that  rattle  and  jingle, 
Or  Broadwood  Grands  that  make  your  ears  tingle, 
With  polka  and  waltzes  four  hours  a  day, 
All  barrel  organs  whatever  they  play, 


Are  Women  Witty?  317 

All  German  bands  that  won't  play  in  tune, 
People  who  practice  too  late  or  too  soon, 
Contraltos  that  groan  and  sopranos  that  squall, 
Bassos  that  bellow  and  tenors  that  bawl." 

And  so  on.  The  list  is  too  long  to  quote  entire, 
for  bores,  like  the  poor,  we  always  have  with  us  ! 

By  the  way,  Eliza  Leslie  said  :  "  Avoid  giving 
invitations  to  bores.  They  will  come  without." 

Lady  Blessington  may  not  have  been  pre-emi 
nently  witty,  but  said  some  good  things  as,  "  When 
the  Sun  shines  on  you,  you  see  your  friends.  It  re 
quires  sunshine  to  be  seen  by  them  to  advantage." 
"  Friends  are  the  thermometers  by  which  we  may 
judge  the  temperature  of  our  own  fortunes."  Her 
biographer  speaks  of  her  sallies  of  wit  in  her  early 
happy  days.  Unlike  Mad.  de  Stael,  from  whose  tor 
rent-like  monologue  men  fled  as  for  their  lives,  she 
seldom  engrossed  the  conversation  ;  never  dogma 
tised  or  played  the  learned  lady.  Brilliant  thoughts 
were  thrown  off  by  her  with  the  utmost  ease.  One 
ban  mot  followed  another  without  pause  or  effort,  and 
best  of  all,  while  her  wit  and  humor  were  producing 
their  desired  effect,  she  would  take  care,  by  an  apt 
word  or  gesture  to  draw  out  the  persons  who  were 
best  fitted  to  thrive  in  society,  giving  a  chance  to 
all  —  a  give-and-take  mode  of  interchange,  sure  to 
make  a  woman  popular  and  essential  for  the  would- 
be  leader  of  a  salon. 

Louis  Napoleon,  after  his  election  to  the  presi 
dency  of  the  French  republic,  did  not  invite  Lady 


318  Are  Women  Witty? 

Blessington  to  the  Tuileries,  although,  he  had  often 
been  entertained  by  her  in  London.  Meeting  her 
one  day,  he  inquired  if  she  expected  to  remain  long 
in  Paris.  To  which  her  cool  reply  was  :  "  And  you  ?  " 

Of  a  very  awkward  man  coming  into  the  room, 
Mrs.  Montague  once  whispered  to  Sir  William  Pepys  : 
"  There  is  a  man  who  would  give  one  of  his  hands  to 
know  what  to  do  with  the  other." 

She  wrote  many  sparkling  poems  or  verses  for 
the  showy,  superficial  annals  then  so  popular. 

After  spraining  her  ankle  severely  and  made  pain 
fully  lame,  Miss  Cobbe  says  :  "I  went  to  drive  in 
Regent's  Park,  and  came  rather  late  into  the  draw 
ing  room  full  of  company,  supported  by  what  my 
maid  called  my  best  crutches.  The  servant  did  not 
know  me  and  announced  '  Miss  Cobble.'  I  cor 
rected  her  loudly  enough  for  the  guests  to  hear  in 
that  moment  of  pause  :  "  No  !  Miss  Hobble.'  " 

Lord  Houghton's  sister  was  often  annoyed  at  her 
brother's  indiscriminate  hospitality.  "  Do  you  re 
member,  my  dear,"  he  asked  her  at  dinner  one  day, 
"  whether  that  famous  scoundrel  X.  was  hanged  or 
acquitted  ?  "  '•  He  must  have  been  hanged,  or  you 
would  have  had  him  to  dinner  long  ago,"  replied  the 
lady. 

Mrs.  Asquith  has  a  ready  wit  and  nimble  tongue, 
and  fears  no  one.  She  was  the  life  of  the  celebrated 
yachting  party  given  at  Copenhagen,  when  Mr. 
Gladstone  met  the  Czar.  Upon  her  return  to  Lon 
don,  she  convulsed  society  with  her  word  pictures  of 


Are  Women  Witty?  319 

Mr.  Gladstone  who  wanted  to  talk  all  the  time,  and 
Lord  Tennyson  who  thought  no  entertainment  so 
delightful  as  reading  his  own  poetry,  the  two  holding 
forth  to  rival,  but  constantly  decreasing,  companies 
at  opposite  ends  of  the  ship. 

Among  French  women,  the  only  difficulty  is  to 
select  from  a  host.  Think  of  Madame  du  Defraud, 
blind,  old,  bitter,  but  admired.  Helvetius  was 
blamed  in  her  presence  for  having  made  selfishness 
the  supreme  motive  of  human  action.  "  Bah  !  "  said 
she,  "  he  has  only  revealed  every  one's  secret." 

When  someone  complained  that  Voltaire  "had 
not  much  invention,"  she  exclaimed,  "  What  more 
can  you  ask  ?  He  has  invented  history." 

Madame  de  Stael's  reply  to  the  diplomat,  who, 
sitting  between  herself  and  Madame  Recamier,  said : 
"  Here  I  am  between  wit  and  beauty."  "  Yes,  and 
without  possessing  either." 

Madame  de  Sevigne  writes  :  "  One  loves  so  much 
to  talk  of  one's  self  that  one  never  tires  of  a  tete-a-tete 
with  a  lover  for  years.  That  is  the  reason  for  con 
fession.  It  is  for  the  pleasure  of  talking  of  one's  self, 
even  though  speaking  evil."  The  phrase  "  After  us 
the  deluge,"  has  been  given  to  Madame  de  Pompa 
dour.  Marie  Antoinette's  milliner  ought  to  be  re 
membered  for  her  epigram  —  "  Nothing  is  new  that 
has  not  been  forgotten."  Sophie  Arnould,  a  fasci 
nating  French  actress,  about  1744,  was  noted  for  her 
wit,  so  much  so  that  Arsene  Houssaye  has  preserved 
her  ban  mots  in  a  volume  called  Arnoitldiana,  which 


320  Are  Women  Witty? 

will  compare  with  anything  of  its  kind  in  the  French 
language.  For  a  dozen  years  prior  to  the  Revolu 
tion,  Sophie  Arnould  was  a  queen  of  society,  as  well 
as  art,  and  in  her  elegant  salon  she  held  a  brilliant 
court,  where  distinguished  men  were  proud  to  pay 
homage  to  her  beauty  and  genius. 

Benjamin  Franklin  said  he  nowhere  found  such 
pleasure  and  such  wit  as  with  her.  Poets  sang  her 
praises,  artists  were  eager  for  her  portrait.  "  What 
are  you  thinking  of  ? "  she  said  to  Bernard  in  one  of 
his  abstracted  moods,  "  I  was  talking  to  myself,"  he 
replied.  "  Be  careful,"  she  said,  "  you  gossip  with  a 
flatterer." 

To  a  physician  whom  she  met  with  a  gun  :  "  Ah, 
Doctor,  you  are  afraid  of  your  professional  resources 
failing  ? " 

A  beautiful  but  brainless  woman  complained  of 
the  persistency  of  her  lovers :  "  You  have  only  to 
open  your  mouth  and  speak,  to  get  rid  of  their  im 
portunities."  Being  told  that  a  Capuchin  monk  had 
been  devoured  by  rats,  she  exclaimed  with  an  ex 
pressive  shrug:  "Poor  beasts!  their  hunger  must 
have  been  something  terrible  !  " 

I  come  with  pride  and  delight  to  the  witty  women 
of  our  own  country,  beginning  at  Boston,  with  Helen 
Bell,  Rufus  Choate's  brilliant  daughter,  who  made 
that  remark  quoted  without  credit  by  Emerson,  "  To 
a  woman,  the  consciousness  of  being  well  dressed 
gave  a  sense  of  tranquility  which  religion  failed  to 
bestow." 


Are  Women  Witty?  321 

Julia  Ward  Howe  is  undeniably  witty.  Her  con 
currence  with  a  dilapidated  bachelor,  who  retained 
little  but  his  conceit,  was  excellent.  He  said  :  "  It  is 
time  now  for  me  to  settle  down  as  a  married  man, 
but  I  want  so  much  ;  I  want  youth,  health,  wealth,  of 
course;  beauty,  grace—  "Yes,"  she  interrupted 
sympathetically,  "  You  poor  man,  you  do  want  them 
all." 

Of  a  conceited  young  man  airing  his  disbelief  at 
length  in  a  magazine  article,  she  said :  "  Charles  evi 
dently  thinks  he  has  invented  Atheism."  After 
dining  with  a  certain  family  noted  for  their  chilling 
manners  and  lofty  exclusiveness,  she  hurried  to  the 
house  of  a  jolly  friend,  and  seating  herself  before  the 
glowing  fire,  sought  to  regain  a  natural  warmth,  ex 
plaining,  "  I  have  spent  three  hours  with  the  Mer  de 
Glace,  the  Tete  Noir,  and  the  Yung  Frau,  and  am 
nearly  frozen." 

Pathos  and  humor  as  twins  are  exemplified  by 
her  tearful  horror  over  the  panorama  of  Gettysburg, 
and  then  urged  by  Mrs.  Livermore  to  dine  with  her, 
saying  :  "  O  no  !  my  dear,  its  quarter  past  two,  and 
Mr.  Howe  will  be  wild  if  he  does  not  get  —  not  his 
burg  —  but  get  his  dinner." 

Think  of  many  other  witty  Boston  women :  Lu- 
cretia  Hale  with  her  inimitable  Peterkin  Family,  her 
sister  Susan  with  her  flashing  repartee  and  genuine 
epigrams,  Mrs.  Phelps  Ward,  Sarah  Orne  Jewett, 
Abby  Morton  Diaz,  Mrs.  Maria  Porter. 

It  was  Mrs.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Jr.,  who  said 


322  Are  Women  Witty? 

that  the  Cunard  steamer  Oregon  committed  suicide  to 
avoid  being  put  on  that  company's  Boston  line. 

Miss  Hale  recently  sent  me  some  economic  aphor 
isms  to  keep  my  spirits  up  :  "  One  swallow  does  not 
make  a  summer,  neither  does  one  scholar  pay  the 
dressmaker's  bill."  "  There  are  no  birds  in  last 
year's  nest,  but  last  winter's  bonnet  may  bear  another 
flower." 

Charlotte  Fiske  Bates,  formerly  of  Cambridge, 
excels  in  epigrams,  quatrains,  and  short  humorous 
poems. 

There  is  much  genuine  humor  among  the  women 
journalists  of  Boston,  although  they  make  no  pre 
tensions  to  wit,  and  do  not  seem  to  know  how  truly 
they  possess  it.  "  Do  you  live  on  the  Back  Bay  ? '' 
said  a  lady  the  other  day  to  Miss  Jenkins,  so  well 
k'nown  by  her  "  Chatterer  "  column  in  the  Herald 
and  whose  home  is  on  a  narrow  little  street  up  town. 
"  Rather,  the  small  of  the  Back  Bay,"  she  answered 
instantly.  Marion  Howard  Brazier  spoke  in  one  of 
her  letters  of  a  woman  who  had  been  married  for 
fifty-six  years  and  had  never  missed  lighting  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  added  thoughtfully  :  "  Her  husband 
must  be  the  most  extraordinary  fire-escape  on  record." 

While  on  a  visit  in  Quebec,  our  driver  said  he 
carried  a  Boston  woman  and  party  up  into  the  citadel 
court,  and  there  pointed  out  the  small  brass  cannon, 
saying  :  "  This  we  captured  from  you  at  Bunker 
Hill."  She  quickly  replied,  "  Ah,  well,  never  mind, 
we  have  the  hill." 


Are  Women  Witty?  323 

A  very  "  fresh  "  young-  man  lately  made  the  ac 
quaintance  of  a  young  lady  from  Boston,  to  whom  he 
proceeded  to  pour  out  a  long  story  of  some  adventure 
in  which  he  had  played  the  hero.  His  listener  was 
much  surprised.  "  Did  you  really  do  that  ? "  she 
asked.  "  I  done  it,"  answered  the  proud  young  man, 
and  he  began  forthwith  upon  another  long  narrative, 
more  startling  even  than  the  first.  The  Boston 
woman  again  expressed  her  polite  surprise.  "  Yes," 
said  the  fellow,  with  an  inflation  of  the  chest,  "  that's 
what  I  done."  A  third  story  followed,  with  another 
"  I  done  it,"  and  then  the  Boston  girl  remarked  :  "  Do 
you  know,  you  remind  me  so  strongly  of  Banquo's 
ghost  ?  "  "  You  mean  the  ghost  in  Shakespeare's 
play?"  "Yes."  "And  why?"  "Why,  don't  you 
remember  that  Macbeth  said  to  him,  '  Thou  canst 
not  say  I  did  it  ? '  '  The  young  man  could  not  imag 
ine  why  everybody  laughed. 

Reading  this  lecture  in  towns  near  Boston,  I 
asked  for  instances  of  humor  among  their  women, 
and  secured  several.  A  minister's  wife  disliked  liv 
ing  in  one  of  these  suburban  places,  giving  as  her 
reason  that  it  had  the  quiet  of  the  grave  without  its 
peace'.  Another  woman  said  :  "  If  I  am  ever  tried  for 
my  life,  I  do  hope  I  can  have  a  jury  of  my  own  fam 
ily,  for  they  would  never  agree."  And  a  young  girl 
hunting  in  vain  for  the  box  of  hard  boiled  eggs  pro 
vided  for  a  picnic,  and  harder  yet,  failing  to  find 
them,  exclaimed  :  "  Those  eggs  must  have  been  mis 
laid." 


324  Are  Women  Witty  ? 

The  first  wife  of  Mr.  Higginson  was  a  noted  wit. 
Many  of  her  sayings  are  preserved  in  his  novels. 
In  New  York  we  count  the  witty  women  by  tens : 
Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  Mrs.  Runkle,  Mrs.  Botta,  Mrs. 
Alice  Wellington  Rollins,  Mrs.  Lizzie  Champney, 
Mrs.  Terhune  (Marion  Harland),  Mary  D.  Brine, 
Josephine  Pollard,  Mrs.  E.  T.  Corbett,  Mrs.  Victor, 
Mary  Kyle  Dallas,  and  Kate  Douglass  Wiggins 
Riggs,  who  will  count  two-score  at  least.  In  Brook 
lyn,  Caroline  B.  LeRow,  Frances  Lee  Pratt,  Ella 
Kirk,  and  a  dozen  more.  I  would  like  to  illustrate 
by  extracts  from  their  work.  Marietta  Holley  be 
longs  to  New  York  state.  Her  Samantha  Allen  and 
Betsey  Bobbet  convulsed  the  continent.  She  is  con 
stantly  solicited  for  humorous  articles  and  more 
funny  books,  until  she  is  well-nigh  killed.  Men,  I 
mean  publishers,  find  that  women's  wit  puts  much 
money  in  their  pockets.  As  they  rattle  the  gold  and 
caressingly  count  the  bills  from  twentieth  editions, 
do  they  still  think  of  'women  as  sad,  crushed,  senti 
mental,  hero-adoring  geese,  who  can't  see  the  humor 
ous  side?  Octave  Thanet  is  most  decidedly  humor 
ous.  Phoebe  Gary  has  been  called  "  the  wittiest 
woman  in  America."  She  parodied  Whittier's  exqui 
site  Maud  Muller.  I  recall  four  pithy  lines  : 


"  We're  apt  to  fuss  and  fret 
About  the  one  we  didn't  get  ; 
But  we  needn't  make  such  an  awful  fuss 
If  the  one  we  didn't  want  didn't  get  us." 


Are  Women  Witty?  325 

Barnum  asked  her  one  evening  what  was  her 
favorite  brand  of  champagne  ?  "  We  drink  Heidseik, 
but  we  keep  Mum."  Another  day  he  reported  the 
marriage  of  his  skeleton  man  and  the  fat  woman. 
She  said  instantly,  "  I  suppose  they  loved  through 
thick  and  thin." 

Fanny  Fern  must  not  be  forgotten,  nor  Aunt 
Fanny  Barrows,  nor  Margaret  Undergrift.  The 
Misses  Wilder  of  Brooklyn  had  a  great  reputation 
for  ready  wit.  Once,  when  the  Misses  Wilder, 
both  being  at  that  time  not  yet  engaged,  proposed 
to  have  a  screen  to  separate  their  parlors,  a  young 
gentleman  was  asked  to  suggest  a  motto  to  em 
broider  on  the  screen.  He  replied  :  "  For  many 
have  called  but  few  have  chosen."  Miss  Maud 
Wilder  retorted  on  the  instant :  "  No,  we  will  put 
on,  for  your  special  benefit,  '  Be  not  faithless  but  be 
leaving.' "  I  will  give  two  verses  from  Maud,  now 
Mrs.  Goodwin : 

Carved  in  the  old  Cathedral 
Where  the  wise  men  service  said, 

Just  over  the  old  oak  pulpit, 

Is  a  monkey,  scratching  his  head. 

But  to-day,  in  our  high  church  pulpits, 
The  case  is  reversed  ;  instead, 

'Tis  the  monkey  reads  the  service, 
And  the  wise  man  scratches  his  head. 

The  driver  for  Mrs.  Kemble  and  her  coaching 
parties  at  Lenox  said :  "If  I  could  have  bottled  up 
the  sparkle,  the  wit  and  humor  evolved  in  those  ex- 


326  Are  Women  Witty? 

cursions,  I  could  have  made  a  book  to  be  read  by 
everybody,  but  it  would  be  too  difficult  now  to  repro 
duce  it.  If  you  have  read  Miss  Sedgwick  and  heard 
Mrs.  Kemble  and  Miss  Cushman,  you  can  possibly 
imagine  what  must  have  been  its  character.  Miss  C. 
said,  I  could  drive  the  slowest  and  get  there  the 
quickest  of  any  man  she  ever  knew." 

It  was  Fanny  Kemble  who  spoke  of  some  one  as 
"  single  as  a  stray  glove."  Mrs.  Child,  describing 
adornments  of  a  room,  speaks  of  a  vase  of  flowers 
done  in  water  colors,  looking  sickly  and  straggling 
about  as  if  they  were  only  neighbors-in-law ;  and 
Ophelia  with  a  quantity  of  "  carrotty  "  hair  which  is 
thrown  over  three  or  four  rheumatic  trees,  and  one 
foot  ankle-deep  in  water,  as  if  she  were  going  to  see 
which  she  liked  best,  hanging  or  drowning. 

Rose  Terry  Cooke  possessed  both  wit  and  humor, 
and  they  shone  in  her  sketches  of  New  England 
characters,  and  in  her  daily  conversation.  I  remem 
ber  she  spoke  to  me  of  some  one  as  a  "  decayed 
gentlewoman,"  but  quickly  added, li  not  offensively 
so." 

In  Washington  think  of  Gail  Hamilton,  Kate 
Field,  Julia  Schayer,  and  Grace  Greenwood.  Grace 
Greenwood  makes  capital  puns,  and  has  said  a  thou 
sand  witty  things,  as  when  she  said  of  a  genuine 
type  of  the  old  New  England  Yankee,  "  He  looks 
as  if  the  Lord  had  made  him  and  then  pincJied  him." 

Some  lady  was  describing  an  unfortunate  man 
who  had  tumbled  awkwardly  about  in  getting  into 


Are  Women  Witty  ?  327 

an  omnibus,  grabbing  at  ladies'  knees  for  support,  as 
"  a  perfect  savage."  "  Of  the  Pawnee  tribe,  doubt 
less,"  said  Grace.  She  used  to  be  a  chronic  punster, 
and  is  one  of  the  best  raconteurs  in  America.  She, 
doubtless,  inherited  her  wit  from  her  mother.  She 
says,  that  on  coming  into  the  breakfast  room  on  a 
winter's  morning,  she  saw  her  mother  in  a  shawl  of 
brilliant  hue,  and  cried  out,  "  See  the  scarlet  woman  !  " 
Her  mother  rose  and  with  a  mocking  bow  responded, 
"  Yes,  and  the  mother  of  abominations."  This  re 
minds  me  of  Talmage's  youngest  daughter  who  was 
fond  of  evening  gaieties  and  often  slept  late  in  con 
sequence.  Coming  down  about  nine  o'clock,  she  met 
her  parent's  stern  gaze,  and  received  the  depressing 
greeting  :  "  Good  morning,  daughter  of  sin."  "  Morn 
ing,  Father,"  was  her  response. 

In  Philadelphia,  Miss  Louise  Stockton  displays  a 
quaint  humor  almost  equal  to  her  brother  Frank. 

In  Chicago  I  consider  Mrs.  Clinton  Locke  and 
Sarah  Hackett  Stevens  among  their  wittiest  women. 
Mrs.  Locke  is  the  wife  of  the  popular  rector.  To 
count  them  all  would  be  impossible. 

The  Rev.  Clericus  has  been  waiting  half  an  hour 
to  speak  to  his  wife,  who  is  having  a  call  from  Mrs. 
Longwind.  Hearing  the  front  door  close  he  sup 
poses  the  visitor  is  gone. 

The  Rev.  Clericus  (calling  from  his  study)  : 
"  Well,  is  that  old  bore  gone  at  last?  " 

Mrs.  Clericus  (from  the  drawing-room,  where  Mrs. 
Longwind  still  sits) :  "  Oh,  yes,  dear,  she  went  an 


328  Are  Women  Witty? 

hour  ago  ;  but  our  dear  Mrs.  Longwind  is  here  —  I 
know  you  will  want  to  come  in  and  see  her." 

Xor  can  we  visit  every  city,  town,  village,  and 
hamlet,  to  add  examples  that  plentifully  exist ;  we 
must  classify. 

How  do  men  dispose  of  such  humorous  literature 
as  that  given  to  us  by  Catharine  Sedgwick,  Eliza 
Leslie,  Caroline  M.  Kirkland,  Mrs.  Whitney,  Mrs. 
Stowe,  Rose  Terry  Cooke,  Mrs.  Whicher  of  Widow 
Bedott  papers,  Mrs.  Ellen  H.  Rollins  in  "  New  Eng 
land  By-gones,"  Mrs.  Walker  who  originated  that 
saying:  "  The  total  depravity  of  inanimate  things," 
Mrs.  McDonell,  "Sherwood  Bonner,"  whose  skit  in 
the  Chestnut  Street  Radical  Club  of  Boston  will 
carry  her  name  on  for  generations,  Mary  Wilkins, 
etc.,  etc.,  unless  men  only  read  their  own  wit  and 
admire  their  own  brilliancy.  Junius  Henry  Brown 
thinks  that  man  cannot  change  his  long-held  esti 
mate  of  woman's  mental  calibre  from  which,  as  he 
made  it  up,  he  carefully  eliminated  all  sense  of  the 
ludicrous.  It  is  a  wise  man  who  writes,  "  Don't 
you  know  that  men  hate  to  meet  women  in  the 
arena  for  any  sort  of  contest  but  one — that  of  hearts  /  ' 

In  these  progressive  days  when  women  are  tak 
ing  high  rank  in  every  profession  and  every  busi 
ness,  when  young  girls  are  winning  prizes  for  math 
ematics,  oratory,  essays,  in  fair  competition  with 
young  men,  when  middle-aged  women  are  managing 
yachts  and  riding  bicycles,  and  the  muscles  of  our 
college  girls  are  being  hardened  by  boating,  golf, 


Are  Women  Witty?  329 

and  tennis,  it  is  simply  absurd  to  cling  to  this  moss- 
back  fallacy  of  the  past.  Such  critics  remind  me  of 
a  mole  which,  blind  and  living  under  ground,  only 
comes  out  of  his  hole  to  nibble  with  sharp  teeth  at 
something  growing  above  him. 

The  professional  wit  carefully  reserves  his  good 
things  for  pay,  in  print,  or  for  after-dinner  display, 
but  half  the  women  of  my  acquaintance  are  saying 
and  writing  good  things  all  the  time,  without  the 
least  effort  or  self-consciousness.  At  every  age,  from 
ninety  to  nine,  I  find  an  abundant  fund  of  illustra 
tion  ;  and  even  younger.  Think  of  dear  old  Mrs. 
Wade,  eighty-six  years  of  age,  more  lively  than 
many  a  maiden  in  her  teens,  fond  of  games,  excelling 
in  fancy  work,  admired  by  all.  When  a  lonely  old 
fellow  actually  proposed  to  her  a  few  years  ago,  she 
relegated  him  to  the  position  of  a  brother,  and  when 
he  would  not  be  sent  away,  and  begged  her  to  make 
the  subject  a  matter  of  prayer,  she  said  quickly,  with 
a  quizzical  smile,  "  No,  I'm  not  going  to  bother  the 
Lord  with  questions  I  can  answer  myself."  And 
she  said  she'd  concluded  to  wade  through  the  rest  of 
her  life. 

Old  ladies  often  continue  to  see  the  humorous 
side.  One  such  old  dame,  living  in  New  Hampshire, 
and  nearing  her  centennial,  was  bidding  farewell  to 
her  oldest  son,  who  had  come  on  from  the  far  west 
to  see  her.  "  Kiss  me  again,  mother,"  he  said.  "  I 
may  not  have  another."  And  she  inquired,  "  Why, 
James,  don't  you  feel  as  well  as  usual  ?  " 


330  Are  Women  Witty? 

Another  venerable  woman,  who  could  not  remem 
ber  some  story  she  desired  to  quote,  said :  "  Why, 
sometimes  I  seem,  to  know  nothing."  It  was  during 
that  period  in  politics  when  a  certain  party  were 
known  by  that  name,  andherson  said  :  "  You'll  have 
to  join  the  Know-Nothings."  "Well,  I  won't  have 
to  go  far,"  she  retorted,  looking  keenly  at  him. 

At  a  large  party  given  in  honor  of  her  arriving  at 
her  ninetieth  birthday,  she  was  heard  to  say :  "  I 
seem  to  be  one  among  ten  thousand,  even  if  I  am  not 
altogether  lovely." 

"  The  woman  clergyman  is  often  witty,  as  is  Anna 
Shaw."  Once,  when  answering  the  question-box,  at 
a  meeting,  the  question  was  asked,  "  Who  is  respon 
sible  for  the  liquor  business  ?  "  She  answered  tersely, 
"  Men.  Of  course  they  have  votes  and  the  business 
can  be  voted  up  or  down,  according  to  the  will  of  the 
voters."  A  minister  in  the  audience  said,  "  Sister 
Shaw,  don't  you  think  that  is  rather  hard  on  the 
men  ?  Don't  you  think  the  devil  has  something  to 
do  with  the  liquor  traffic  ?  "  She  looked  thoughtful 
a  moment,  and  then  looking  at  the  brother,  said, 
"  Well,  yes,  if  the  brother  is  willing  to  accept  the 
company,  men  and  the  devil."  A  friend  says: 

Since  I  wrote  you  last  I  have  recalled  a  sharp 
repartee  made,  in  my  hearing,  by  a  little  girl  only 
five  years  of  age.  She  was  a  member  of  the  family 
that  occupied  part  of  the  house  in  which  I  lived  while 
studying  at  Andover.  She  was  teased  a  good 
deal  by  a  brother  a  little  older  than  herself,  on 


Are  Women  Witty?  331 

account  of  the  color  of  her  hair,  which  was  an  unmis 
takable  red.  The  brother  mentioned  had  a  capillary 
covering  of  an  indescribable  hue,  probably  of  the 
shade  which  the  old  lady  defined  as  "  half-way  be 
tween  a  dander-grey  russet  and  a  fire-stone  drab." 
He  had  ruthlessly  tormented  his  little  sister  one 
day,  when  she  suddenly  turned  on  him  and  exclaimed, 
with  flashing  eyes  :  "  Well,  I  can  tell  you  one  thing, 
Fred,  I  know  what  color  my  hair  is,  and  that  is  more 
than  you  can  say  !  " 

If  the  merit  of  a  retort  can  be  gauged  by  its  suc 
cess,  this  one  ought  to  rank  high,  for  it  put  an  end 
to  the  persecution. 

Susan  B.  Anthony  represents  the  elderly  spinster, 
witty  to  the  last,  as  quick  now  as  when,  thirty  years 
ago,  Horace  Greeley  said  to  her  :  "  The  ballot  and 
the  bullet  go  together.  You  women  say  you  want  to 
vote.  And  you're  ready  to  fight,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Greeley,  we  are  ready  to  fight  —  at  the 
point  of  the  goose  quill —  the  way  you  always  have  !  " 

The  wit  of  young  girls  is  apt  to  take  the  form  of 
repartee,  and  to  be  highly  spiced  with  pepper-sauce, 
as,  at  a  church  wedding,  when  an  impecunious 
groom  said  impressively :  "  With  all  my  worldly 
goods  I  thee  endow,"  his  cousin  in  the  front  pew 
wrhispered  :  "  There  goes  his  valise." 

A  young  English  attache  of  the  legation  in 
Washington  remarked  to  an  American  belle  some 
years  ago :  "I  am  weally  sorry  to  see  that  the 
Bering  Sea  affair  is  not  likely  to  be  amicably  ad- 


332  Are  Women  Witty? 

justed,  for,  of  course,  with  our  superior  navy,  we 
could  just  wipe  you  off  the  face  of  the  earth."  She 
replied  with  one  word  —  "  Again  ?  " 

Is  not  that  as  true  wit,  in  condensed  form,  as  the 
remark  of  Talleyrand,  and  a  cruel  one  it  was  to  the 
wretched  sufferer  on  his  deathbed,  who  said,  "  Oh,  I 
suffer  the  torments  of  hell!"  "Ddjh?"  (already?) 
asked  the  diplomat. 

It  was  the  younger  daughter  of  Judge  Chase, 
who,  on  passing  General  McClellan,  who  was  leaning 
gracefully  over  the  back  of  a  chair  at  a  reception : 
"  Ah,  General,  behind  your  entrenchments,  as 
usual." 

Another  girl,  who  had  spent  a  winter  in  Wash 
ington  society,  with  no  end  of  admirers  and  atten 
tion,  went  for  the  summer  to  a  seaside  resort,  where 
the  flattering  devotion  continued. 

Among  the  train  was  an  addle-pated  dude,  who 
said  to  her  one  evening,  in  a  patronizing  way, 
in  the  intervals  between  his  cane-suckings,  "  Weally, 
Miss  Scott,  you  must  have  an  awfully  nice  time, 
don't  you  know  —  so  much  attention.  Why,  some 
times  I  truly  fear  it  will  turn  your  head."  "  Indeed, 
Mr.  Softy,  I  have  more  fear  for  my  stomach." 

Fashionable  Doctor  :  "  My  dear  young  lady,  you 
are  drinking  unfiltered  water,  which  swarms  with 
animal  organisms.  You  should  have  it  boiled  ;  that 
will  kill  them." 

His  Patient :  "  Well,  doctor,  I  think  I'd  sooner  be 
an  aquarium  than  a  cemetery." 


Are  Women  Witty?  333 

A  well  known  society  woman  of  the  West  end, 
unfamiliar  with  the  niceties  of  the  English  language, 
spoke  at  one  of  those  delightful  teas  which  char 
acterize  this  delightful  season  of  the  year,  of  a 
spinal  staircase  of  great  beauty  which  had  been  con 
structed  in  the  house  of  a  neighbor.  There  was  a 
bright  girl  near  by  who  heard  this  architectural  — 
or  anatomical  —  reference.  She  said,  aside,  and  it 
was  very  mean  of  her  to  whisper : 

"  Perhaps  the  lady  refers  to  her  neighbor's  back 
stairs." 

It  wTas  at  a  state  ball.  The  Englishman  and  the 
American  girl  were  talking  over  some  of  those 
present,  when  the  Englishman  said :  "  That  is  Lord 
B —  -  who  has  just  passed  you.  Have  you  met 
him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer.  "  and  I  thought  he  was 
extremely  dull." 

"  You  surprise  me,"  said  he,  "  he  is  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  lights  of  our  service." 

"  Really?  "  she  replied.  "  Then  it  is  my  turn  to 
be  surprised.  His  light  flickered  so  when  he  talked 
with  me  that  I  set  him  down  as  one  of  your  tallow 
diplomats." 

And  surely  our  married  belles  are  not  slow  at 
retort. 

At  a  supper  party  in  London  the  other  night  the 
conversation  turned  on  "talking  shop."  Some  one 
declared  that  an  actor  or  musician  was  never  happy 
unless  allowed  to  talk  shop  by  the  hour,  and  then  it 


334  Are  Women  Witty? 

was  pointed  out  that  doctors  and  barristers  were 
"just  as  bad."  A  witty  lady  present  laughingly 
added:  "Yes,  philosophers  talk  Schopenhauer, ladies 
shopping,  tipplers  '  Schoppen,'  musicians  Chopin, 
and  actors  shop." 

Mrs.  Lincoln's  remark,  as  the  vivacious  Miss 
Todd,  to  her  lank,  gawky  admirer,  is  worth  quoting : 
Young  Abe  said,  "  Miss  Todd,  I  want  to  dance 
with  you  the  worst  way."  And  she  added,  "he 
surely  did." 

Mrs.  Fred  Grant  is  a  witty  woman,  as  is  proved 
by  her  remark  to  Frederick  Douglass,  who  regretted 
being  dragged  into  a  political  excitement  as  a  nom 
inee  :  "  You'll  have  to  figure  as  the  dark  horse,  Mr. 
Douglass." 

Mrs.  George  Pendleton  replied  appropriately  to 
one  of  our  English  critics  who  complained :  "  You 
have  no  antiquities  ;  no  curiosities  in  your  country  !  " 
"  Antiquities  will  come  in  time,  and  as  for  our  curi 
osities,  we  import  them." 

And  that  suggests  the  response  of  Miss  Patterson, 
who  married  a  Bonaparte,  and  was  asked  at  a  dinner 
in  England  why  the  Americans  had  such  bad  man 
ners.  She  said  she  supposed  it  was  because  of 
their  direct  English  descent  without  any  infusion 
from  the  Aborigines  ! 

It  was  a  Washington  woman  who  said  :  "  Sumner 
should  never  have  married.  His  self-love  was  so 
intense  as  to  make  it  almost  bigamy." 

Rudyard   Kipling's  mother   is  described  as   the 


Are  Women  Witty?  335 

wittiest  woman  in  Northern  India.  She  said  of  an 
extremely  erudite  but  garrulous  official,  that  he 
ought  never  to  be  allowed  to  talk,  but  should  be 
consulted  when  required  as  a  cyclopaedia  of  inform 
ation. 

Married  women  do  not  lag  behind  when  attacked. 
Rev.  Dr.  Trask  of  anti-tobacco  fame  said  to  his 
petite  wife  soon  after  their  marriage :  "  I  confess  I 
am  disappointed  in  your  height."  "  No  more  than  I 
am  in  your  depth,"  she  retorted. 

Of  wit  in  dramatic  form  let  me  say  that  Gilbert 
borrowed  his  "  Palace  of  Truth  "  almost  bodily  from 
"  The  Tale  of  an  Old  Castle,"  by  Madame  de  Genlis, 
and  that  those  inimitable  farces,  "  The  Belles  of  the 
Kitchen  "  and  "  Fun  in  a  Fog  "  were  written  by  an 
Englishman  especially  for  the  Yokes  family. 

In  our  own  country,  Mrs.  Monatt's  "Fashion,"  a 
comedy  in  five  acts,  was  played  most  successfully 
and  for  a  long  "  run  "  at  Wallack's  in  New  York  and 
in  Philadelphia,  and  Mr.  French,  the  publisher  of 
plays,  tells  me  it  has  been  acted  all  over  the  Union, 
and  has  everywhere  been  a  great  favorite. 

Mrs.  Verplanck's  "  Sealed  Instructions  "  also  met 
with  marked  approval. 

Miss  Merington's  plays  written  for  Sothern  are 
complained  of  by  the  masculine  critics  as  being  "  too 
witty " !  bristling  with  epigrams  and  over-radiant 
with  brilliant  repartee. 

Lovers  of  mirth  are  now  enjoying  in  New  York 
Miss  Martha  Morton's  comedy,  "  His  Wife's  Father," 


336  Are  Women  Witty? 

and  Crane  is  complimented  for  the  quality  of  his 
humor.  Neil  Burgess  burlesques  Widow  Bedott, 
and  is  regarded  as  its  author.  The  younger 
McCarthy  does  give  to  Madame  Rejane  genuine 
wit  in  her  art.  Miss  Kate  Vannah  and  Miss  Bartlett 
are  now  collaborating  a  comedietta. 

Women's  wit  never  fails,  even  in  the  street  cars : 

Polite  gentleman,  rising,  "  Take  my  seat, 
Madame." 

"  Never  mind,  thank  you,  I  get  out  here,  too  !  " 

Severe  conductor,  "  Miss,  this  is  the  smoker's 
seat." 

Young  lady,  "  Must  I  smoke  if  I  sit  here  ?  " 

"  You  can't  keep  a  good  man  down,"  said  the 
proverb-loving  boarder. 

"Not,"  said  the  typewriter  boarder,  "not  unless 
he  has  a  seat  in  the  car.  Then  you  can't  get  him 
up." 

The  concise  description  of  a  -ladies'  lunch  as 
"  Giggle,  gabble,  gobble,"  was  from  a  New  York 
leader  in  society.  It  has  been  widely  ascribed  to 
Dr.  Holmes,  who  assured  me  in  an  autograph  letter 
that  it  did  not  belong  to  him. 

Fully  half  the  humorous  poetry  in  our  current 
magazines  is  from  women.  I  know  several  who 
earn  their  pin-money  sending  their  own  off-hand 
jokes  and  those  of  their  less  enterprising  sisters  to 
comic  papers  for  good  pay. 

In  Dean  Ramsay's  "  Reminiscences  of  Scottish 
Humor "  he  quotes  Jimmy  Fraser,  an  idiot,  who 


Are  Women  Witty?  337 

said  the  cleverest  thing  of  them  all.  I  would  gladly 
include  a  witty  idiot  girl  in  my  collection,  but  can 
not  find  an  idiot  girl ! 

Off-hand  letters  scribbled  on  shipboard  fairly 
scintillate.  Here  is  one  bit  from  a  very  seasick 
girl: 

"  Life  is  intolerable  and  the  whole  world  a  huge 
mass  of  food.  And  alas  for  the  busy,  restless  mind. 
I  actually  wished  I  had  lost  mine  before  starting,  for 
the  one  thing  you  can  retain  is  ideas.  '  Ten  minutes 
for  refreshments,'  'hot  fried  oysters,'  'boiled  eggs,' 
hotel  gongs,  etc.,  chase  through  my  brain  like  mad. 
Still  laboring  under  the  delusion  of  '  must  eat '  I 
take  a  cracker,  one  small,  dry,  hard,  Boston  cracker. 
Heller's  tricks  pale  beside  this  one  of  mine,  for  I 
instantly  threw  up  several  dozen.  I  try  a  little 
brandy,  but  'tis  quickly  converted  into  a  '  brandy- 
sling.'  " 

Books  of  travel  from  the  pens  of  women,  are 
they  deficient  in  humorous  incident  and  vivid  sense 
of  fun  ? 

Some  man  regards  the  absence  of  a  funny  column 
in  a  girl's  paper  as  proof  of  no  humor.  It  seems  to 
me  evidence  of  wit  and  sense  — anything  less  humor 
ous  than  those  efforts  I  know  not  of. 

After  a  careful  consideration  of  masculine  wit  as 
shown  to-day  in  the  weakly  efforts  of  professional 
humorists,  the  pathetic  senilities  of  Punch,  the 
tedious  specimens  of  after-dinner  fireworks,  when 
nothing  will  go  off,  being  damped  by  dullness  and 


338  Are  Women  Witty? 

reiteration,  the  confessed  inability  of  our  noted 
story-tellers  to  invent  or  smuggle  a  new  and  really 
laughter-provoking  anecdote,  I  deem  it  unwise  to 
wish  to  live  up  to,  or  rather  down  to,  this  somnolent 
and  twilight  interregnum  of  masculine  wit. 

And  in  time  this  absurd,  unmeaning  fallacy  will 
disappear,  and  the  wit  and  humor  of  women  will  be 
generously  and  universally  acknowledged. 

If  it  is  a  "  very  serious  thing  to  be  a  funny  man," 
it  is  even  more  dangerous  to  be  a  witty  woman. 
For  remember : 

"  Tho'  you're  bright  and  tho'  you're  pretty, 
They'll  not  love  you  if  you're  witty  !  " 


